


Skin to Skin

by burgerheadjones



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Soulmate AU, betty's self harm, bughead - Freeform, i also happen to love soulmate AUs, i love bughead okay, lots of bughead, slow burn au, slut shaming in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-11-01 13:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10922976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burgerheadjones/pseuds/burgerheadjones
Summary: Jughead Jones doesn’t know how the crimson crescents ended up on his palms.Betty Cooper is clueless when it comes to the messages on her arms.Soulmate AU where all the little marks and injuries belonging to Betty and Jughead start finding themselves on each other’s skin.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> BUGHEAD GALORE OKAY?

Jughead Jones is almost done with an incredibly important meeting when it first happens.

Jason Baltimore, the editor of the Long Island Publishing House, is sitting across him, fiddling with a ballpoint pen as he addresses Jughead. They've been in this windowless room for about two hours now, and Jughead can't help but curse whoever designed this building. Hidden away in the streets of Manhattan, this place took an arduous amount of effort to find, and the sort-of dingy exterior almost made Jughead do a one-eighty and turn back.  _ Sure, this is the first publishing house that liked my book, but I'm sure I can find another. _ He'd thought, but he'd shaken his head and made his way in.

“Mr. Jones, are you listening?” 

Jughead's head snapped up, blue-green eyes meeting brown. “Sorry, yes, it's just a bit stuffy here.” He said.

“Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, but we'll have to conduct the rest of our meeting here.” Mr. Baltimore says, visible sweat stains peeking out from under his armpits. 

Jughead nodded and fiddled with his watch. “Yeah, that's okay. I'll manage.”

“So we've got two problems.” The blonde, slightly chubby man, says. “One, your name is Jughead.”

Jughead raises his hands defensively. “So what?”

“You're going to risk ridiculing yourself. People will end up laughing at your name on the cover instead of noticing the title.”

“Or,” Jughead says, leaning forward, “I'll take them by surprise. ' _ The Anatomy of a Murder’  _ will be all the more unique, considering the fact that its content is so serious.”

Mr. Baltimore mimics his movement, resting his elbows on the desk between them. “At the acquisitions meeting, this issue  _ was  _ brought up, Mr. Jones.”

“So  _ I _ will convince them.” Jughead Jones was a stubborn man.

Mr. Baltimore wipes away a droplet of sweat. “Let’s say you don’t succeed. Would you, maybe, consider an alternative? I don’t suppose your real name is  _ Jughead.” _

Oh, no. No way was ‘Forsythe Jones’ going to be put on the cover of his first book; there was a reason he preferred ‘Jughead’ over that ridiculous name. (Ironic, considering the fact the Jughead was pretty ridiculous, too.)

Jughead shakes his head. “Let’s just say my real name is worse.” He eyes the editor in front of him. “It looks fine on paychecks and insurance forms, but not on a novel.”

“Perhaps a pseudonym, then?”

Jughead sets his mouth into a thin line.

“No, then.” Mr. Baltimore says, gauging his reaction. “Mr. Jones, I advise you to think this over, and get back to me on Wednesday.”

He flips open his laptop. “Now, the next issue I want to discuss... well, it’s not an issue, but something I would like you to know...” He turns the laptop face towards Jughead. “You’re twenty two years old. You’re a senior at NYU. Probably the youngest among a huge community of authors.”

Jughead nods. “I’m well aware of that.”

“Mr. Jones, your style is unique, and your writing is brilliant, but generally, books by younger authors don’t tend to be as successful as others, and I hope you’re prepared for such a situation.”

Jughead bites his lip. “I know, Mr. Baltimore. I hardly expected this book to get picked up by a publisher in the first place, and I’m thankful to you, I am. But, I think that the masses will like it. I truly do.”

“I am hopeful, too, Mr. Jones- can I call you Jughead, by the way?”

“Sure.” 

“I am hopeful too. Just preparing you. Moving on,” Mr. Baltimore says, fanning himself with Jughead’s manuscript. “Oh, for God’s sake- someone get the Air Conditioner working!” He yells after stalking to the door and sticking his head out. 

_ Thank you,  _ Jughead thinks, because he doesn’t feel too comfortable about the fact that his manuscript is now a makeshift fan. Plus, the need for fresh air is only increasing.

“Now,” Mr. Baltimore says, once he’s settled in his chair again, “You need to create accounts on social media, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Tumblr and Reddit if you want to discuss theories with your readers, and all the likes.”

Jughead internally groans at the Twitter and Instagram part, but he knows it’s necessary. The Tumblr and Reddit part he’s fine with, though. He’s been on those sites for years now.

“Could I borrow a pen?” Jughead asks. He needs a reminder, and writing on his forearm is a habit he’s had for many years. Once he Mr. Baltimore gives him one, he jots down a sentence onto his pale skin-  _ Remember to succumb to the true giants of social media. _

“And finally, Jughead, we’re assigning you an agent. Though you won’t need him as much if your book, well, doesn’t gain popularity, it’s still better to have one at hand. I’m giving you his number, shall I text it to you or will you write it down?”

Jughead’s phone is currently at a repair shop- it’s an iPhone 3, he’s been able to survive with that archaic thing for years now, but finding a store that actually fixed them was a huge task. But his screen had cracked badly, and Jughead has too many notes on it to buy another one without recovering stuff from this one. 

“I’ll write it down.” He grabs the pen, once again, and etches the set of numbers Mr. Baltimore dictates to him. 

“Well, Jughead, I’ll see you on Wednesday. This meeting was a pleasure, and I’m glad that I’ve decided to publish your book. But, think the name over.” 

Jughead smiles, blushing ever so slightly. “Thank you, Mr. Baltimore.”

He grabs his bag and shrugs his leather jacket (courtesy JB) onto his shoulders and stands up. He has a shift at Barnes and Nobles’, and then a paper to write for his film study course, so he needs to hurry.

That’s when it happens. His palm suddenly stings, like it’s been cut, and Jughead winces with surprise. He opens his hands, palms up, looks at them, and sees that they’re bleeding. His fingernails have cut open the skin of his palm, and smears of blood marr the white skin.

“What happened to your hand?” The older man asks. 

“Nothing,” Jughead says, covering his hands by shoving them into his pocket. He doesn’t self harm- that’s not his means of escape from the encroaching darkness he sometimes finds himself trapped in, but he doesn’t have  _ any _ memory of clenching his fists so hard that he broke skin.

“Alright.” Mr. Baltimore says, a hint of suspicion in his voice. “Goodbye.”

Jughead walks out, through the crowded office cubicles, down a rickety staircase and out onto the Manhattan streets, clenching and unclenching his fists in his pockets all the way. Either he’s going crazy, or there’s some practical, explainable reason. 

Jughead doesn’t know why this bothers him so much.

He reaches the Subway and boards a train. Miraculously, he manages to get a seat.

He opens his palms that had been shoved in his pocket the whole way to the station and stares at the crimson crescents that decorated his palm. It’s strange as hell.

He inspects his fingernails, trying to see if there’s blood underneath them.

“Those are pretty bad.”

Jughead’s head snaps up in the direction of the woman sitting next to him. She’s much older than him, about mid-forties, and her dark skin is peppered with a few wrinkles. She looks kind, and slightly whimsical, going by the dream-catcher braided into her cornrows. 

“I’m sorry?” He asks, but he knows what she said in the first place.

The lady shoves her spectacles up and faces him. “Those look painful,” She says, tilting her head towards his hands. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t do this...” He’s aware of how crazy he sounds. Who else could have possibly done that?

“You’re telling me those fingernail cuts aren’t yours?”

“No, they... just appeared.”  Why is he telling a stranger this?

The lady smiles like she knows something he doesn’t, but doesn’t say a word.

“What?” he asks, eyebrows scrunching together in confusion.

“Your soulmate bond is at work.” She whispers. “That isn’t you- it’s your soulmate.”

What? Jughead wants to laugh. Soulmates? Those only exist in books, they’re a figment of people’s imagination. Sure, if one truly loves their significant other, then the word ‘soulmates’ is self-applied, but there wasn’t an external entity somewhere that decided these things. Right?

“Soulmates?” He blurts out, incredulity written all over his face and tone, but the lady only shakes her head. “You’ll see, soon. Mark my words!” A smile is plastered onto her face. She thinks she’s right, he can see.

The train is pulling to a stop and Jughead lurches sideways, despite him sitting down. “Explain.” He demands, because he is slightly curious. This would end up being some mambo-jambo, he’s sure, but he’s an author and while fantasy isn’t really his genre of choice, he’ll listen.

“Would you look at that! My stop’s here.” The lady says, standing up and making her way to the doors. Jughead considers  following her, but he’s already lost view of her amongst the teeming New York monday morning crowd. 

So he sits back down and bites his lip, staring once again at the now dried blood on his palms.


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead Jones doesn’t know how the crimson crescents ended up on his palms.
> 
> Betty Cooper is clueless when it comes to the messages on her arms.
> 
> Soulmate AU where all the little marks and injuries belonging to Betty and Jughead start finding themselves on each other’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALWAYS BUGHEAD.

“Mom, quitting was the best decision I’ve made in a while.” Betty Cooper says, clenching her jaw as she watched her furious mother yell at her on FaceTime.

“Betty, I got you into that internship! I called them and told them you’d be a promising candidate!”

“So what, Mom? They were overbearing, they didn’t give me  _ any _ freedom whatsoever, and they were assholes.”

Alice Cooper gasps behind the screen of Betty’s laptop. It’s Monday morning, her only free time in the entire week. She’d woken up late (garnering grim disapproval from her mother), made breakfast, and finally settled down for her biweekly video chat with her mother.

Betty had just quit her internship at the Manhattan Herald. It was a position she’d acquired with the help of her mom, who was the editor of  the newspaper back in her small hometown.  She’d worked there for about four months now, juggling this unpaid internship, her job as a barista at the local Starbucks, her journalism course at NYU, and the most difficult of them all- her overbearing mother.

Truth is, Betty Cooper had been the ‘perfect’ girl for years now. She was an american stereotype- blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth; part of the cheerleading squad, a straight-A student, head of the organising committee, and the ‘girl next door’. Even in college, she strived to bring pride to the Cooper family, by working her ass off day in and day out for the past few months, especially.

She lived in a very decent flat in NYC, a ten minute walk from her campus, but Alice Cooper refused to let her live there without earning back  _ some  _ of the money spent on the apartment rent.

So barista it was.

If she was being honest. Betty was tired. There’s only so much one can take, and this was her  _ last semester.  _ She was going to make this count. Which meant, she couldn’t handle all of these things at once.

Besides, her internship at the Manhattan Herald was like torture- all she did was sit and stare at the walls everyday, not even fetching coffee or running stupid errands. They’d given her condescending smiles when she asked for work, and she was a twenty two year old, for God’s sake.

It wasn’t even a paid internship. So she’d given them the pink slip.

Alice Cooper, by nature, did not approve of this decision. 

“Betty Cooper, I am calling them back and telling them you made a mistake.”

“No! Mom, don’t you dare. It’s not a mistake; I can focus on my course now!” Betty says, almost spilling her tea on herself. 

“Do you realise what an opportunity you’ve missed? Betty, that course of yours will not help you as much as this internship would have!”

“Sure, Mom, if staring at cubicles all day taught me anything.” Betty sets her tea down, after taking a sip, and folds her arms across her chest.

Alice Cooper freezes for a couple of seconds on her screen and Betty curses the Wi-Fi. It’s been acting terrible lately; she needs to look into that.

“-you’ve disappointed us.” 

This time, it’s Betty who freezes.

She’s heard those words a countless number of times, but it hurts the same  _ every time.  _ Any minor transgression on her part, and those words are flung at her, like she’s someone who can’t get  _ anything _ right. She knows she has, she knows that she’s achieved a lot of things on life only at twenty-two, but those  _ words _ make her feel like the scum of the earth.

Not this time, though. She’s made a good decision, a  _ great _ decision, and she will not let her mother tell her otherwise.

Unknowingly, her fists curl up into balls.

“Have you taken your medication?” Alice Cooper continues, after a lack of response.

Rage, fury and frustration soar through Betty, she’s pissed. 

“No.”

And she slams the laptop shut.

She hasn’t taken her performance-enhancing medication since sophomore year; it’s just something her mother gave her to help her be...  _ perfect,  _ when she was anything but. She’d lied to her mother all these years, until now.

Her fists tighten. She can feel her manicured nails pierce her skin; reopen scabs that still have to heal. She hates what she’s doing, loathes herself for it, but this action is borderline involuntary and she can’t help but do it.

She squeezes tighter, and her fingertips become wet. She’s drawn blood.

Slowly, with unsteady hands, she unfurls her fingers and stares at the red curves littering her palm. They’ll form scars, she knows, because she never lets them heal.

With an uneven breath, she gets up from the sofa she’d been perched on, sets her laptop down and makes her way to her shower. She puts her phone on silent, too, not wanting to face her mom just yet.

Shedding her nightie and slippers, she closes the door behind her and shoves the shower curtain aside, turning the shower on and stepping into its steaming water.

She holds her palms before her, letting her wounds stings under the hot rivulets, and closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, to grab some soap, she notices it. Most of the blood has gone, but now there is a sentence and a number written on her left forearm.

_ Remember to succumb to the true giants of social media _

_ 555-2368 _

 

She’s taken aback, at first, because she has no recollection whatsoever of writing this.

She flicks back through what she did last night- she didn’t go clubbing or out drinking, she had a shift at Starbucks. After that, she came straight home and studied.

And she  _ never _ writes on her skin- she’s been told (by Alice Cooper, who else) that the habit would aid skin cancer. So she wouldn’t have happened to study that last night, either.

A blackout, maybe. Just that she’s never had them before.

_ ‘Remember to succumb to the true giants of social media’? _ That was a weird one.

If it is a blackout, and Alice Cooper finds out, Betty can say bye to her dream of living in New York. She needs to get to the bottom of this. 

It just occurs to her that she can call the number, and she yanks her arm out of the water. The note has already smudged slightly, by it’s still decipherable. If she’s been galavanting around the city without her wits, she can at least find out.

Getting out of the bathtub, toweling herself down, and then putting on a bathrobe, she finds her phone and dials the number. Someone actually picks up.

“Andy Cuthbert’s office,” a female voice starts. If Betty’s ever heard a New York accent, this is it- it’s uncanny, and Betty has to fight back a laugh. She had a bet with Kevin to see who would find the person with the biggest accent, and she may have won.

But it’s an office number, and Betty’s curious as to why  _ that  _ number would be written on her arm.

“ What does Andy Cuthbert do?” Betty asks.

The voice on the other side of the line huffs. “He’s a publicising agent, for authors.”

“Hm,” Betty says, out loud. 

“Did you randomly call this number, or...?” The woman says.

Betty shakes her head, and realises the woman can’t exactly see. “No, it’s just... by any chance, do you happen to recognise these words or, I don’t know, know something about them?” she reads out the sentence on her arm.

The woman laughs. “Okay, no. I can’t help you there.”

“This number was written on my forearm this morning, out of the blue.”

“Oh-kay, you’re weird. Maybe you were drunk, and I dunno, scored the yellow pages?”

“No, I definitely wasn’t...” Betty says, confusion wracking her brain. “Thanks, though.”

The phone line is cut without another word.

Worry is creeping into Betty’s heart and brain, and she starts tracing every activity she did between yesterday and today. She can’t find a hole, a gap, or something shady- she slept at two and woke up at ten, in her bed, without any trace of going out between that period.

Maybe she was making this a bigger deal than it was?

She flops down onto her sofa and notices the time- ten forty five. Shit. She had a class in half an hour.

Scrambling, she gets up to finish her shower, looking at the words, numbers, and then her partially washed away blood, before scrubbing them all away.


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead Jones doesn’t know how the crimson crescents ended up on his palms.
> 
> Betty Cooper is clueless when it comes to the messages on her arms.
> 
> Soulmate AU where all the little marks and injuries belonging to Betty and Jughead start finding themselves on each other’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUGHEAD IS ENDGAME

Jughead shoves his keys into the lock of his apartment door and enters, a bag of groceries in in hand. Don’t get him wrong, he can’t cook, but there’s only so much ramen and takeout he can endure.

Although, he can make a mean sandwich, but that can’t really be called _cooking,_ can it?

He’s exhausted. Working at B&N might seem easy, but he was on re-stocking duty today, which meant hauling cartons of books to and fro. In addition to dealing with self-entitled middle aged adults.

Plus, he contract of his book was _finally_ signed today, which meant that he was getting an advance of maybe fifteen thousand dollars, which _was a freaking lot._ He could quit his job and get a library at home.

But then, his mind drifts to hospital bills, student loans and debts to pay off, so he temporarily forgets that idea.

He dumps his groceries on the tiny kitchen counter and unpacks them with slow movements; he’s tired, but he can’t go the sleep unless he’s eaten. His stomach will not let him.

He takes out some shredded chicken, lettuce, a tomato and mayo- simple, yet so, so tasty. Yes, Jughead is very easy to impress if one’s talking about food.

He slices his bread (He loves the type with seeds in it, Archie thinks he’s crazy,), spreads mayo over it, and moves to slice the tomato. He vaguely remembers an article he’d read awhile back about a legal battle over a tomato. 1887, was it?

Jughead suddenly yawns; he’s dreaming of his bed, but his stomach is protesting, and all of a sudden, the knife slips and slices his thumb, instead.

“Shit,” He says, shaking his hand, which only results in a little blood behind splattered on the wall plaster. He runs to the sink and turns on the tap, watching the cut bleed as cold water falls on it. Eventually, after, say, five minutes, it clots up and the bleeding stops. He needs to find a band-aid, as soon as possible, so he rummaged through some cluttered cupboards to find one. There's an old Hello Kitty one he finds, which he remembers getting free with some snacks, but it's the only band-aid he can find. So he puts it on.

He won't ever admit it, but blood makes him _slightly_ queasy.

He makes himself a cup of coffee as well, and goes back to finishing his sandwich. Unfortunately, the tomato’s covered with a dark red liquid that is _not_ its juice, and he's forced to ditch the tomato part. He's too lazy to take out another one.  Finally, he settles down on his battered couch, switches Netflix on and savours the blessing that is shredded chicken and mayo.

Jughead rewatches three episodes of  Black Mirror, his favourite ones. He doesn't may _too_ much attention to them, though, as his mind wanders to all the things he has to do. He considers going to bed; but his phone starts dinging. JB is calling on FaceTime.

“Hey, JB.” He answers.

JB is sobbing, and Jughead's alarms start blaring. He brings the phone closer.

“What happened, Jelly?”

“Dad... He's been arrested. Again.”

Shit. Oh no.

“Over what?” He asks, biting his lip.

“He's been accused of involvement in murder.” JB hiccups, wiping away tears from her face.

This hasn't been FP Jones's first stint in jail. Hell, even Jughead's spent some time in Juvie. This family is screwed up.

But murder? It's never gone that far. FP was the leader of a gang, called the Southside Serpents, back in his hometown of Toledo, which meant getting involved in shady business, behind-the-dumpster type of weed exchanges, and whatnot, but it's never been _this_ bad.

“Tell me everything, Jelly.” He sighs, mind already scanning through possible ways to help his dad.

He learns that FP's home was ransacked, _that very night,_ to find incriminating evidence of the murder of a sophomore in Toledo High. The Sheriff had received an anonymous tip-off, and they'd found a gun in FP’s tiny trailer.

FP had been dragged to the station and questioned.

The worst part was, he'd confessed.

“I don't think he did it, Jug.” Jellybean whispers later. “I know.he owned up to it... But _I know_ he hasn't done it. I just know, okay?”

“Jelly... I'm not sure. He did confess.” Jughead's eyes are misting up. “I know he'd cleaned up his act for a bit, but if he's confessed, then I don't know what to believe.”

JB shakes her head. “Jughead, I'm going to have faith. I will. I know daddy, and he isn't capable of- of murder.”

All Jughead wants to do is give her a hug.

“I'm going to come home.” He says, opening a new tab to book bus tickets.

“NO!”

He startles at that, and shifts the tab back to FaceTime. “Why not?”

“Jughead, your book is being published. You have meetings to attend, covers to decide, edits to make. You cannot simply put all of that in hold to come over here. It's your debut book. Your first book!” Jellybean says, throwing her hands up in the air. Her black sheet of hair whips around.

Jughead's not convinced. “I could do all of that from there, JB. Face to face meetings are almost redundant with the invention and development of technology. How am I talking to you right now?”

Jellybean just shakes her head. “No. I won't let you come.”

“JB, are you hiding something else?” He knows when his sister is keeping something under wraps. She's a terrible liar, just like him.

His sister stays silent, evidently trying to think up of another reason why he shouldn't come.

“Jellybean.”

“Okay,” she caves, shoulders slumping. “Jughead, you know that I love you, right? Dad loves you, too and so does Mom, even if they have weird-ass ways of showing it?”

Jughead nods, eyebrows scrunching up together in confusion.

“And I didn't want to tell you, because you'd get hurt, but...”

His sister is stalling too much, and Jughead gets impatient.

“Jellybean, what happened?” He says, curtly. His thumb is still throbbing, and he watches Jellybean sigh and wring her hands together.

“Mom... said she never wants you back. She, well, she thinks you remind her too much of Dad.”

“Oh.”

Jughead’s fingers trace the scabs of the fingernail imprints on his palm, processing this information.

“Also, Jug, she still kinda, um, resents you because you chose to stay with Dad, all those years ago, instead of coming with her.”

He stays silent this time, not making eye contact with JB, and unseeingly staring at his palms.

Gladys Jones and Jughead Jones never really had a great relationship, if he was being truthful. It was his Dad that Jughead often went to.

FP Jones had been an alcoholic for most of Jug’s childhood. The boy grew up watching his father drown out his sorrows one bottle after another, and witnessed it only get worse when Jughead got put into juvie for attempted arson at ten and JB was hospitalised for her kidney at six.

But despite that, Jughead always saw the good in his father. He may not always try, but Jughead had faith in the older man. So much, that he stayed behind with FP when Gladys Jones had had enough, taking JB with her. But during that time, FP showed _no_ attempt at righting his wrongs, and if anything, he got worse. He had been perpetually drunk, and eventually, even Jughead reached his limit. So he’d moved out, braving homelessness for about six months. When his best mate, Archie, found out, he’d hosted Jughead on his couch for a few weeks, but the brunet hadn’t wanted to overstay his welcome.

Finally, FP had gotten his act back together, and Jughead had moved back in.

When he shifted to New York, though, FP kind of lost it again and got himself arrested for minor transgressions. He’d had been able to bail himself out each time, but a _murder_ accusation was not something you could easily escape from.

But his mom, well, he’d never been that close to. Yes, he’d inherited his Mom’s skill in writing, sense of humour, and some of her facial features, maybe, but that was where the similarities ended. But not wanting him back _at all..._ that was harsh.

“Jug?” Jellybean whispers.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, wanting to change the topic. “So I’m getting my book advance soon, I could send the money over if it helps with getting a good lawyer, or something.”

“Jug, you don’t need to...” JB starts.

“No, no, it’s okay.” he puts his hand on his forehead, like he’s trying to recall something. “They’ll assign him one, but if we want the court to think he’s innocent.. We’ll need a good lawyer.”

“Which will be easy, because he is innocent.” JB says, stubborn as ever, just like him.

Jughead runs a hand through his dark hair.

“Remember when you used to wear that beanie everywhere?” Jellybean breaks the silence. “Even when you were seventeen?” She sniffs, laughing at the same time.

“Yeah,” He smiles. “I still wear it sometimes.”

“Well, you’ll get all the girls if you don’t Jug. They appreciate a nice, good, mop of hair. Coupled with the leather jacket I gave you, maybe some girl is currently fawning over you.”

Jughead blushes. “No girlfriends at all, JB, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No boyfriends either?”

“No, considering that I’m not into guys...” Jughead says, fighting back both a yawn and a smile.

“Oh, well.” Jellybean says, and then pauses. “Listen, Jug, don’t forget that I love you, okay? Despite what Mom says, she loves you too.”

Jughead nods. “I know,” he says, simply. “I’ve gotta go sleep, it’s 2 am, JB, and so should you. Don’t you have school tommorow?”

“I’m not going.” She says. “I’ll help where I can with dad.”

“Okay,” He says. “Call me if and when you need anything. I’ll be there, okay?”

“I will.” JB replies, and Jughead moves to end the call. “Nice band-aid, bro.”

He grins and switches his phone off. He gets under the covers, after completing his bedtime routine and closes his eyes, drifting off into a slumber.

The whole time, he traces the crescent marks on his palm.


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead Jones doesn’t know how the crimson crescents ended up on his palms.
> 
> Betty Cooper is clueless when it comes to the messages on her arms.
> 
> Soulmate AU where all the little marks and injuries belonging to Betty and Jughead start finding themselves on each other’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUGHEAD? BUGHEAD.

When the alarm clock blares, Betty Cooper does something incredibly rare- she doesn’t snooze it, and instead,  _ actually  _ gets up.

She was going to go to the gym before her shift, on the insistence of Alice Cooper.

Her mother. Betty hasn’t spoken to her since Monday, three days ago, after she’d slammed her laptop shut. She’d ignored all of Alice’s calls, FaceTime requests, and messages, and maybe Betty is running the risk of being cut off. But if and when that happens, she’ll deal with it.

And skipping a day of gym won't do her any harm.

She sits up, stretching her arms above her head and yawning- she got a good night’s sleep, for the first time in  _ weeks.  _ Tying back her hair, after smoothing down her bedhead, she puts her legs over the side and slips her feet into slippers.

She notices a blood stain on the sheets- and for a moments, she’s afraid she got her period  _ way  _ too early.

But the stain is towards the headboard, and her thumb also happens to be covered in the dark red liquid, which has now dried. 

Betty moves towards her bathroom and washed the crusty blood away- only to reveal a cut. It’s pretty long, and deep enough to cause more bleeding than usual.

She’s utterly bewildered. Betty’s not a clumsy person, and considering the fact that  _ she would remember _ cutting herself like this...

What if it’s a repeat of the random message written on her arm three days ago?

Perhaps it happened when she was sleeping. Yeah, that’s the most plausible solution.

She walks back to her bed, inspecting her bedside table for any such sharp object which could be the cause. There’s a letter opener on the table, but Betty hasn’t touched that in weeks. She’d just forgot to put it back in the stationary drawer. 

Her phone back-up alarm blares, and she jumps. Her shift at Starbucks starts in forty-five minutes, and she needs to get ready.

Maybe she’s just making a big deal out of this, she thinks, as she showers and puts a band-aid on the cut. Maybe she was too sleepy yesterday to notice.

Donning her Starbucks uniform and tying her hair in a loose ponytail, unlike her highschool days, she locks her apartment door behind her and sets off to work.

She enjoys working as a barista. Sure, sometimes she wants to throw something at anyone who orders  _ another _ unicorn frappuccino, but she likes the borderline banal and mundane work- it gives her time to think.

She clocks in, puts her apron on and begins her shift. With this job, she ends up smelling like coffee all the time, but it’s not something she particularly minds.

A brunette comes in, with two toddler twins in tow- they’re noisy, but admittedly adorable, and Betty is reminded of her sister’s kids. Eliza and Cliff.

Polly Cooper eloped when she was in high school- got pregnant in her junior year, and had the babies in her senior year. The special man, and now Betty’s brother in law, was Jason Blossom- the son of Clifford Blossom, who owned an incredibly successful maple syrup business in Vancouver. Jason was set to inherit this giant empire, along with his sister, Cheryl, and so they, along with Polly and the kids, were moving up there this fall. Therefore, Betty had limited time to spend with her niece, nephew and sister.

Having eloped at seventeen, Polly was almost disowned by Alice Cooper and Hal Cooper. They’d almost sent her away to a house- ‘The Sisters of Quiet Mercy’, when they found out that she was expecting. Polly almost ran away with Jason, they almost drowned in Sweetwater river, and basically, the Cooper family was a shitstorm during that particular period of time. It was a soap opera, worthy of the silver screens.

But, eventually Alice Cooper gave into her soft side once the babies were born- and they were the cutest little things.  _ They still are,  _ Betty thinks, smiling as she prepares the machiatto that the woman has ordered.

But of course, Polly’s mistakes only put pressure onto Betty to up her game and be perfect. Which is why Betty wasn’t allowed to have boyfriends in high school (not that she didn’t, behind their backs).

She was also put on birth control and performance enhancing medication, which, in Betty’s opinion, was excessive, unnecessary and too much. But no one says no to Alice Cooper. 

Well, except Betty, after Monday’s debacle.

The thing is, Betty still has nightmares. She’s always afraid of failing, she’s always afraid that she won’t be successful in life- her mother has turned her into a two dimensional human being who only worries about being perfect.

Which she definitely did not want to be. She’s grown to detest that word.

She puts a fake smile onto her face and hands an espresso to a teenager.

At least now she has more time on her hands, after quitting. She’s put in a lot more hours into studying these past few days, and she’ll do well this term. She knows it.

Being a journalist is something Betty’s always wanted to be, since she was a pre-schooler. She watched her parents in their office when she was little, and always eagerly awaited the day she would write her first article.

That day came when she was fifteen. She’d reopened her school’s newspaper- the Junipero High Herald, and she’d taken over it, writing exposes about all the minor scams that went in in her school.

That newspaper helped her get into this journalism course here at NYU. At least here mom didn’t interfere  _ here. _

Betty realises she has a lot of mommy issues.

Her attention snaps back into reality when someone comes up to the counter. 

“One Cafe Americano, no sugar, please. To go.” He says, glancing down at his phone. He’s tapping his foot, biting his lip. He’s in a hurry.

The first thing Betty notices is the Hello-Kitty band-aid on his thumb, and fights back a grin.

“Love the choice of band-aid there, she says, punching in his order.  

He grins. “Thank you, I happen to have a thing for anthropomorphic beings.” He says, shoving his phone in his pocket. He nods his head towards Betty’s thumb. “ I see you have a band-aid, too, but  _ so boring. _ ”

“Well, not all of us have Hello-Kitty or disney themed band-aids at hand.” Betty says, picking up a marker. “So, what is your name, oh Sanrio stan?”

Jughead chuckles. “Jughead.”

Betty audibly laughs. “Are you serious? Are you one of those people who come in and tell me their name is Voldemort or Primrose Everdeen, or something?”

‘Jughead’ shakes his head and runs a hand through his dark, wavy hair. “Completely authentic, don’t worry.”

“Alright, then,  _ Jughead, _ ” Betty says, jotting his name down on on plastic cup. “Coming right up.”

Her eyes follow him as he moves to the side and wait for his order, eyes glued to his phone, an iPhone 3, which Betty hasn’t seen in  _ years. _

His name, by far, is the weirdest one she’s ever had to write.

She gets his coffee ready and calls out his name- saying it with a lilt in her voice, her blatant amusement on show. 

He takes it from her with a thankful smile, and Betty notices the marks on his palm. Tiny arcs pepper both his hands- they’re fingernail marks, and if there’s anyone who knows them well, it’s her. 

Maybe she stares at them for longer than necessary. 

Betty Cooper thinks of her own fists, scarred by her own fingernails. She keeps her fingernails short, but yet she manages to hurt herself. She hates herself for doing it, because the aim to be perfect has been ingrained in her, and this is a weakness. 

But, doesn’t she hate ‘perfect’? 

Still, her fists curl against her own volition when she’s sad, angry, hurting, and Betty Cooper feels a wave of sadness for this man in front of her. She wants to help him, so that maybe, just maybe, she can help herself.

But, before she knows it, he’s gone, lost in the sea of people, indistinguishable amongst thousands of others.

 


	5. v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead Jones doesn’t know how the crimson crescents ended up on his palms.
> 
> Betty Cooper is clueless when it comes to the messages on her arms.
> 
> Soulmate AU where all the little marks and injuries belonging to Betty and Jughead start finding themselves on each other’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON'T KILL ME?

Jughead shoves a copy of _Moby Dick_ onto a shelf, letting his fingers trail the spines of other classics.  He loves this section. It can sometimes be underrated.

He likes this job, he truly does, but his heart is in writing. He’s finally caught his break now, but he already knows that his advance will disappear down a good lawyer’s throat. It’s the royalties he depends upon.

He’s so used to touching the scabs on his palm now, but this time, his fingers meet smooth skin. H The mysterious fingernail marks have healed, leaving no trace behind.

That doesn’t mean he’ll fall out of the habit easily, though.

He focuses on a customer that comes up to him and asks him where the Youtuber books are, and he directs her there. Then, he returns to his job, putting misplaced books back in its place.

Jughead stares at the thousands of shelves before him- soon, someone will be putting _The Anatomy of a Murder_ by _Jughead Jones_ (Yes, he won the Jughead debate for the author name) on the mystery shelf.

It’s so close, he can almost taste it. He spent his entire sophomore and junior year writing this novel, with the encouragement of his English teacher, and only mustered up the courage to find a literary agent a year ago. He’d almost lost hope, when no one seemed to be interested, but _Phoenix Publishing House_ finally took notice.

His book was scheduled to start printing next week- it would come out in  late November. “The perfect Christmas Gift,” Mr. Baltimore said.

Jughead picks up _I Am Malala_ from the thriller section and puts it back in non-fiction. It’s Saturday afternoon, and his shift ends in forty five minutes. Later, he’ll have to go back to the apartment and cram in some studying.

He rolls his eyes as he finds a book dog-eared. _Do people have no respect?_ As he’s righting that terrible, terrible, terrible, wrong, someone taps on his shoulder, and he startles.

“Archie!” He says, once he turns around. The redhead grins in front of him.

“Jughead!” He says, with much enthusiasm.

“What are you doing in New York?” Jughead asks. Archie lives in LA, studying there and simultaneously pursuing a career in music. Jughead hasn’t seen Archie in about eight months, and Archie looks... different. He’s got a haircut, for one.

“Ugh.” Jughead groans, interrupting Archie’s reply. “You’ve become the ultimate white boy.”

Archie defensively pats his undercut. “Shut up, Jug. I’m here to see you.”  
Jughead narrows his eyes. “I’m feeling the love, Archie, really, but why?”

“I heard about your dad.”

Jughead straightens up. “How much do you know?”

Archie looks at him, concern in his eyes. “Everything. Your mom called my dad.”

Jughead nodded, ignoring the mention of his mom. “It’s fine now, I guess. I sent in my advance and they got the second-best lawyer Toledo.”

“Don’t you think... your Dad did it?” Archie says, putting a hand on Jughead’s shoulder.

“I mean, he _did_ confess, Arch, but JB is adamant that he didn’t. I don’t know what to believe.”

Archie nods, and pulls Jughead into a bro hug. Jughead isn’t really prepared, so he stands there rigidly, and glares at his colleague, Roberto, who giggles in the background.

“Jug, if you need anything,” Archie starts.

“-Yes, I’ll call, thanks, bud.”  
Jughead starts walking, with a pile of books in his arms. He turns to look at Archie and tilts his head, indicating that he should walk with him.

“So, Jug,” Archie shoves his hands in his pocket. “How’s the book thing going?”

“Great! Printing starts next week, and I have to help pick out a cover by then. Luckily, they agreed to let the author name remain Jughead.”

“That’ll make you stand out,” Archie says, grinning.

Jughead places _Malory Towers_ in a kid’s shelf. “Hopefully not to the point of ridicule, though.”

“Nah,” Archie says, glancing at the cover of a _Famous Five._ “Remember these?” He holds up the last book.

Jughead smiles fondly. “Ah, my favourite character- Dick.” He jokes. And then he wonders how his sense of humour turned into  _this._

Archie bursts out into a laugh, and sets the book down.

“How are the music sessions turning out?” Jughead asks, straightening a book display. “Any progress?”

“It’s amazing, Jug, these sessions. I’m learning so much, and I might even audition to open for Ed Sheeran at his latest concert.”

Jughead widens his eyes. “That’s huge, man. Originals or covers?”  
Archie’s smile widens. “Originals.”

Jughead pats Archie’s back with his free hand. “All the best, man.”

Archie thanks him, and inspects a  rack of DVDs. “Where are you staying?” Jughead inquires.

“Oh, I’m staying at the Tipton.” Archie says. “Wanted to surprise you, but my flight landed only last night.”

“For how long will you be staying, Arch?” Jughead rearranges a couple of DVDs so that they’re genre-wise.

“Day after. Then I’m flying to Chicago to visit my mom.”

They walk around the store for a while after that, with Archie following Jughead as he adjusts, rearranges and replaces things. Apparently, Archie intends to keep Jughead company till his shift ends.

“What are you doing after?” Archie inquires. “Going back home,  or?”

Jughead nods. “Gonna study for a bit, maybe write, too.”

“Oh, no way.” Archie says, a naughty grin on his face. “We’re going out. To a bar. Where you can meet ladies.”

“And so can you?” Jughead says, quirking an eye-brow.

Archie ignores his question. “Jug, when’s the last time you went out and _had fun?”_

“I went to the New York Public Library last week.”

Archie rolls his eyes. “Listen, Jug, I’m in NYC for two days. I intend to make the most of it. And I need company. Please?”

Jughead sighs. “Clubbing and bars, late at night, when I would rather sit at home, surrounded by food and laptop, is not my scene.”

“Jug, you owe me. Remember the last time I came, you dragged me to two libraries, and a _laptop repair shop_?”

“ _And_ a great pub, with amazing food!” Jughead holds his hands up.

“Jug.”

“Alright, fine,” He gives in. “ _Tonight only.”_

* * *

  
He’s vaguely aware that it’s one am, but he’s too busy grinning and tripping as he runs down an avenue, hand in hand with a girl he doesn’t know.

It’s one AM, and yet, New York is still teeming.

They keep stopping to sloppily kiss, and she keeps stepping on his feet with her incredibly sharp heels, but the drunken haze that he’s in is something he hasn’t experienced in so long.

He thinks they’re making their way to her apartment, it seems, because this isn’t the way to his.

His hands are tangled in her short bob, and it only just occurs to him that she’s as tall, if not taller, than him. She smells like cinnamon and alcohol.

He smiles against their next kiss, and he realises that they’re in an elevator. She pushes him against a wall and runs her hands through his hair. She brings her mouth to his neck, sucking and biting, and he throws his head back with a groan. All that matters now is her _lipsmouthtongue,_ and he takes in a shaky breath as he grips the back of her exposed neck.

Before he knows it, they’re standing in front of a white door, and the girl- Ethel?- is shoving her keys into the lock.

But, all of a sudden, everything comes rushing back to him. He’s hyper aware now, of the girl’s lips tracing his, her hand moving to remove her coat, and the faint buzz of a busy city  in the background.

He’s drunk. She’s drunk. This isn’t right.

He pushes away abruptly, and she furrows her eyebrows. “What?” she breathlessly says. Her hands move forward and grips his jacket lapels. His hands curl around her fists and he gently pushes her back.

“This isn’t...right.” Jughead says, brain fuzzy. “ _Wecan’tdothis._ ” He rushes. “Sorry.”

Then, he’s turning around and opening the door, shutting it behind him.


	6. vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead Jones doesn’t know how the crimson crescents ended up on his palms.
> 
> Betty Cooper is clueless when it comes to the messages on her arms.
> 
> Soulmate AU where all the little marks and injuries belonging to Betty and Jughead start finding themselves on each other’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SPY BUGHEAD everywhere. Literally everywhere. I am losing my mind.

“Metal buttons? Perfect for dungarees, yes, but modern? Definitely not.”

She's in a lecture, sitting next to Kevin Keller, her lifelong best friend.

Kevin and her- they've been best buddies since third grade, and haven't ever fallen out. They were the inseparable pair, the dynamic duo. Kevin was the _one friend_ Alice approved of.

When Kevin joined her in New York, to pursue his career in graphic design, everyone in Betty's social circle thought that it would be _amazing_ if they got together. Which isn't really a good idea, considering that Kevin's gay. And isn't single.

She folds her arms and leans back as she watches the lady on stage hold up some fabric. Kevin's persuaded her to give him company for this open lecture about unconventional fashion in Avant Garde and Betty's bored. She can't show it, of course, because Kevin seems really interested in how one can use metal in clothes. He's leaning forward, chin propped on his hands, and Betty doesn't have the heart to look disinterested. For her, pastels are her go-to. She's a practical girl, and she doesn't really take interest in Avant Garde.

Stifling a yawn, she wishes that she could take a nap right here and right now. She studied for quite a bit last night, till about two thirty, and woke up at nine- with barely any time to get ready for this lecture. It was October, and New York was getting chilly, so Betty had opted to skip her shower.

She's been getting up late lately, she notices. Maybe because she's no longer under the hawk-like watch of her mother.

Betty had texted her a few days ago, with a small 'sorry’ but Alice Cooper had not deigned to reply. If she’s being honest, she’s enjoying this sans-Alice life, but she feels guilty, too.

The blonde closes her eyes and subtly leans back, hoping Kevin won't turn around for the next minute or two, and her mind wanders to the message on her hand a week ago-the message that she  hasn't been able to get to the bottom of it. She even googled that sentence, but nothing substantial came up.

“Betty Cooper, I thought we agreed never to lie to each other.” A whisper comes from her right.

She turns to Kevin. “What?”

He nods to her neck, and a sky grin spreads on his face. “Who's the special guy?”

“What are you talking about, Kev?” Betty says, consciously bringing her hands up to her neck.

“You mean you don’t know? Your neck...”

She stares at him incredulously, taking her phone out to take a look on camera.

“Please don't use your phone,” Says a snooty looking lady sitting next to Betty.

Betty apologizes, but what she really wants to do is roll her eyes.

“I'll be back,” She tells Kevin, who looks slightly alarmed that she isn't aware of these marks. He doesn't listen, and follows her down an aisle and through a pair of white doors.

Betty whips out her camera phone and changes it to selfie mode, tilts her jawline up and pushes the collar of her light blue button-up aside.

Holy guacamole, small tiny bruises litter the left side of her neck. They’re hickeys, she realised. She was familiar with them- her ex boyfriend in high school _had_ given them to her plenty of times, but she hasn’t been with anyone... for a while now. Certainly not last night.

“What the hell?” Her fingertips brush the marks. How did she not notice them this morning? (well, to be fair, she _was_ in a haste.)

“You mean to tell me you have _no_ clue where these came from?” Kevin says, lifting his hand to brush the bottom of her ear.

“No!?” Betty says, panic setting in. “You know I haven’t had sex for _ages,_ now.”

“Which is a huge problem by itself.”

“Not the issue here, Kev!” Betty says. “I need a mirror.”

They find the bathroom- it’s a unisex one, but the janitor outside gives them a look when they _both_ go in. Betty knows what they’re implying.

They stand in front of the sink, and Betty leans forward, unbuttoning the first few buttons of her shirt, and inspects each bruise. There are about five of them, starting from the base of her neck and travelling to her collarbone.

“Betty, did you go out last night?” Kevin asks, and idea formulating in his head.

“No, I was finishing a paper, studying, doing the laundry...”

“And you didn’t drink or eat anything left unattended?”

“I’m not a teenager anymore, Kev. And no.” Betty says.

“Maybe you should go get them checked out, then, Betts,” Kevin suggests, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Joaquin once had a relative who found bruises all over his body, and it turned out to be some blood- related issue.”

Betty gives the hickeys one more once-over and starts buttoning her shirt up. “If it happens again...”

Suddenly, she’s reminded of _other random marks on her skin._

“Kevin,” she says, turning to him. “Listen, I’m not feeling great, I slept very little last night, so do you mind if I go home?”

Kevin laughs incredulously. “You are a terrible, terrible liar, my friend.”

Yep, she’s lying. To some extent, because she _is_ sleepy, but that isn’t the point.

“Okay, I will go back to the lecture and you can go... call Romeo or see him.”

Betty chucks some toilet paper on him and bids her farewell.

* * *

 

She’s sitting at home, Google search bar with a cursor blinking in front of her. She stares at it for a moment, and then her forearm, followed by her thumb.

Slowly, she types in the word ‘soulmates’.

* * *

“Kevin, I know your lecture is over, please, please, please come over,” She says into her phone, the laptop screen reflecting in her cerulean eyes. “Yes, I’m not sick, I lied, just _hurry.”_

She’s still absorbing all the information in front of her- she has about eight tabs open and all of them pertain to the only word spinning and bouncing and twisting in her head- soulmates.

For the past hour, she’s donned her Nancy Drew persona and used the vast, vast internet to her disposal, scouring even the sixth page on Google Search. She’s found substantial evidence, and how else could she convince the son of a Sheriff?  
She prepares for the explanation she’s going to give Kevin- giving each tab a one-over to make sure that it was the right page.

Till he arrives, she takes out some cinnamon butter and bread, and makes cinnamon toast-, Kevin’s favourite.

Finally, twenty minutes later, her doorbell rings and she eagerly swings it open. Kevin stands there, half-amused, half-concerned. “Am I going to meet this handsome lad of yours?” Betty rolls her eyes.

“Listen Kev, what I’m about to show you may be a bit far-fetched, for you, but you must _listen.”_

She leads him to er couch and tilts her laptop towards him. “Have you heard of soulmates?” She begins.

“Yeah,” he replies, “From my Nana.”  
“And you’re aware of the whole concept?”

“They’re _fairy-tales,_ Betty, not too hard to understand.” Kevin says, tilting his head.

“No. That’s where I think you’re wrong.” Betty says, scrolling down on her current tab. “There are about a hundred reported cases of people being drawn to each other, sometimes even literally, in 2016 _alone.”_

“True love?” Kevin suggests.

“Yes, but so much more! This article provided links, which I will show you.” she opens tab two. “Here is a couple in Hawaii born with colour blindness. The _second_ they met, they said that they could see colour again.”  
“Frauds.” Kevin shakes his head.

“Then, why do ophthalmologists say that that was true? That it happened?” She says, gesturing for him to finish reading the article.

“A hoax, Betts. You can’t believe everything you see on the net.”

“Alright, then what about our second example? Different site, but same claim of soulmates.” This one was about two people who, before they had even met, could perfectly describe each other.

After reading the article, Kevin sughs. “Not convinced, Betty.”

“Understandable. How about this one?” she says, pulling open tab four. “You know what prosopagnosia is, right, Kev?” she says. He nods. “Well,” She continues, “This one is about a gay couple, both with prosopagnosia, who would _only recognize each other’s faces.”_

Kevin skims the article and turns to Betty. “This is the mermaid issue and the Loch Ness issue all over again, Betty!”

She promptly ignores him and continues showing him article upon article upon article, all followed by a similar response from Kevin. But she clicks on her last and final tab- the most important one. “This one,” She begins, “Is about a lesbian couple, right here in New York.” On the screen is a picture of a young, dark skinned lady, hair braided in cornrows, feathers intertwined with them. She’s sitting in Battery Park, looks like it, with another woman holding her free hand- this woman is a brunette caucasian with what seems like heterochromia. One eye is blue, the other is brown.

The hands which aren’t being held by each other are raised towards the camera- both have the word ‘soulmates’ written on their palms, and the eerie thing is that the lettering looks _the same._

“Kev, the exact same thing I’m going through- she went through, too. Her cuts were also her soulmate’s cuts, paint strokes on her skin were her soulmate’s- the Same. Thing.”

Kevin stares at her, unsure of what to say. “Betty, I know you’re really enthusiastic about this, but think about it. What are the chances this isn’t some hippie, true love concept that’s all made up?”  
Betty rolls up her sleeve. “I’ll prove to you that the chances are very, very, high. Hand me a pen.”  
He does, and Betty uncaps it, her hand hovering in the air for a moment; she’s thinking of what to say.

She starts with a mere _‘ **Hi’** , _ writes it down, and follows it with **‘ _Succumb to you inner consciousness and reply to this?’_** It’s a perfect reference to the message she’d originally received- the start of this entire thing.

For some inexplicable reason, she expects a reply immediately. She had been under the illusion that he would drop everything to a)notice this message, and b)reply to it. Clearly, after staring at the words on her forearm for a minute, that isn’t the case.

“Give it time,” she tells Kevin, who is looking at her with increasing dubiety. “Let’s watch Mr. Robot till then."

It isn’t until they’re forty minutes into watching Rami Malik walk around in a black hoodie, that Betty realises something’s changed. She glances at her sleeve again for what is probably the sixtieth time that half-hour, and sees black script under her pearly cursive.

“Here’s your proof, Kev,” She says, butterflies pooling in her stomach, eyes glistening with excitement, hands shaking with anticipation, as she reads the sentence below.

**Do I find myself going crazy, or am I the new genderbent Ginny Weasley, with my skin doing a bad cosplay of Tom Riddle’s diary?**

Betty laughs. 


	7. vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead Jones doesn’t know how the crimson crescents ended up on his palms.
> 
> Betty Cooper is clueless when it comes to the messages on her arms.
> 
> Soulmate AU where all the little marks and injuries belonging to Betty and Jughead start finding themselves on each other’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVE AND SUPPORT YOU'VE GIVEN ME!

It seems like Jughead Jones is hungover.

He wakes up on a cream white couch, surrounded by silk pillows. He's in a living room, which is decorated like one of the apartments in Gossip Girl, and the entirely bright white aesthetic of the room is only serving to worsen his headache.

He doesn't know where he is. Which is a huge, huge problem.

He remembers going drinking last night, with Archie, and vaguely recalls that the redhead left early with a raven-haired girl he met at the bar they were at.

He knows he didn't go home after that- his memory is fuzzy. Maybe he was doing shots, maybe he was running down a street, maybe he was in an elevator...

Shit. Oh no. This was the girl's house, right? The girl with whom he left the bar?

He sits up, groaning. He's in the black button up he wore last night, and the pants, too, but his shoes were off. His head is pounding like it's nobody's business, and his throat feels like glass is stuck in it. His tongue is sandpaper, and he needs something, anything, to drink.

He only then registers that there is the noise of a blender in the background, which may have been what had woken him up it the first place. He's sure it'll be the girl he spent the night with.

Gosh, what a dick he was. The guidelines of having a one-night stand were _not to take advantage of the drunk girl_ , and look at what he did. Guilt is already pooling in his stomach, and he needs to face this stranger.

He swings his legs over the white couch and stands up- the room sways, white blends into white, and he has to pause to take a deep breath. He runs a hand through his hair and creeps towards the kitchen, which is a black monochrome. The sound of the blender has stopped, and is replaced by a pan sizzling.

He rounds the corner and stands at the doorway.

There's a girl with dark hair, just like him, standing with her back to him and flipping some bacon. She's wearing pajamas.

He clears his throat, but immediately regrets it, thanks to the awful scratching in his esophagus. The girl whips around, and Jughead notices that she wear a pearl necklace even in her nightclothes.

“Ah, thanks for gracing us with your presence!” She says with a cheery smile.

“Us?” Jughead says, rubbing the back of his neck and squinting.

“Archiekins and yours truly, of course.” She says, turning around and tending to the frying food.

Okay, that's not what he was expecting.

“So you're not the girl... With whom I left Black Rabbit with?”

The girl laughs. “You're attractive, buddy, but I have a thing with Archie right now. I'm Veronica, by the way.” She reaches a hand out, which he steps forward and shakes.

“I made the ever-famous hangover cure for you,” She says, nodding at a glass of green gunk. “Taste like the trash you would find in an alley, but works like a charm.”

He looks at the glass. It isn't even a nice, grass green, but the type of green a muddy, algae-infested pond would be. “Thanks, but I'll just have a glass of water, please.”

“Alright,” Veronica grins, “You may regret it later.”

He takes the glass of water she hands him and gingerly sips it, wincing when it goes down his throat. He can feel its soothing effect a second later, and takes another sip.

“Where am I?” He asks, still unsure, still bursting with questions that he's too miserable to ask at once.

“My apartment.” She says, putting the bacon on a black plate with a spatula. “It's weird, I know, but you called Archie last night, when you were _really, really_ drunk. So we had no choice but to dump you on the couch.”

He furrows his eyebrows, processing this information.

“Lovely set of love bites you’ve got there,” Veronica says, pointing at his neck. He can’t see them, but he knows they’re a result of his late night endeavors.

Okay. He _was_ with someone last night. “Where's Archie?” He realises.

“Out to buy some stuff. He'll be back in half an hour. I'm here to babysit you.”

“Okay, thanks, for everything, but I'm going to leave.” Jughead says, wanting to get out of here ASAP. He would talk to Archie later, but he doesn't want to stay here and converse with Veronica anymore. He has a thousand questions, but he's getting increasingly uncomfortable.

He pats his jeans, locating his phone, and whips it out to book an Uber.

“Okay, you're an adult, I can't force you to stay, but I have bacon ready!” Veronica says, gesturing at the plate. “Archie told me you don't generally turn down food.”

Jughead eyes the bacon and resists the urge to throw up. His appetite is non-existent.

“I don't feel like eating, Veronica, but thanks,” he says, turning around to go to the living room. “If you don't mind, could you tell me where my shoes are?”

“In the shoe cabinet.” She says, bringing herself one plate of bacon and sitting on an armchair instead.

“You took off my shoes for me?” Jughead says, incredulously, turning around to stare at her.

“We also walked ten blocks to come get you when you were at a diner, Jughead, so that isn’t a big deal in comparison.”  
“Why did _you_ come?” He asked, opening the cabinet and pulling his shoes out. “You said I called Archie.”

“I wanted to spend time with him, what’s wrong with that?”  
Jughead doesn’t reply as he laces up his shoes. “I’ll take my leave. Thanks for the couch.”

“I’ll see more of you, Jughead Jones!” She calls out and shuts the door.

As Jughead walks out, he checks his phone for messages. It’s almost eleven o’clock, and he didn’t have much to do, as it was Sunday, except attending a meeting to finalise the cover of his book.

He desperately wants sunglasses. It’s cold, but the New York sun shines brightly.

He’ll make his way home, shower, and get ready for the meeting, which is at two.

He waits outside the building and mulls last night over. So it seems like he went to someone’s house, left, ended up at a diner, and got picked up by Archie and his new love interest. The question is, did he have sex with the girl, or not? Because the hickeys certainly imply that he did.

But as time passes, things get clearer. He’s in the taxi right now, staring at the New York skyscrapers go past, and he remembers the girl with higher detail. She had a curly bob, a little chubby, and was really tall.

An idea occurs to him. If he had intercourse with- Esther, maybe- then the condom he kept in his wallet would be gone. He opens it and checks. It’s still there.

Jughead sighs in relief, utter relief, because that means he did the right thing. He left, and didn’t take advantage of Ethel- yes, that was right- and he felt all the better for it.

Or maybe they didn’t use one.

Shit.

He’s interrupted from his worried reverie when Archie calls him. He picks up, hoping to somehow confirm _something._

“Dude, Jug,” Archie says. “Have you already left?”

“Yeah, I have a meeting.”

“You met Veronica, right? That was her apartment. She’s the girl I went home with last night.”

Jughead leans his head on the window, pushing down the nausea. “She seems nice. Listen, Arch, weird question, but did I have sex with someone last night?”  
Archie laughs. “Are you worried?”  
“Well, yes! I was drunk, I’m pretty sure she was too. I like to consider my morals as correct, so I need to know.” Jughead says, playing with a lock of his hair.

“I dunno, when we came to fetch you from the diner, you kept saying ‘I couldn’t do it’, ‘I’m drunk’, and ‘I want a strawberry milkshake’, so I’m guessing, no.”

“Oh thank God!”He says. “I’ve gotta go, talk to you later.” He says, getting out of the Uber when it reaches his place. His inner turmoil is out the window, he can rejoice.

Ignoring the headache, he climbs the stairs to his flat and crashes on the couch after he lets himself in. Checking the time, he holds his arm up... and notices a message on his forearm.

He freezes. This wasn’t there this morning, he was _sure_ of it.

 **_Hi_ ** _,_ it says, followed by **_Succumb to you inner consciousness and reply to this?_ **

He sits there, contemplating what to do. He's hallucinating, some weird, side effect of a hangover that no one's ever experienced, and he has to run his fingers along the words to make sure it was real. Then he pinches himself really hard. All real.

He doesn't know how to realise if something's a hallucination or not- but he has read then there's always a tell-tale sign that something is wrong. Maybe it's a repeat of all those days ago, when the crescents appeared in his hands.

' _Succumb to your inner consciousness_.’ He remembers writing something similar about a week ago- at the meeting with Mr. Baltimore. Which means... What?

He decides to roll with it. His heart is pounding, his hands are shaking with uncertainty, his breathing is uneven, his head is pounding, his surroundings are spinning, but he picks a pen up from the coffee table and he replies.

Book references are his go to, so that's how he starts.

**Do I find myself going crazy, or am I the new Ginny Weasley, with my skin doing a bad cosplay of Tom Riddle’s diary?**

He writes this and wonders if there was anything in the water Veronica gave him. He dials Archie's number.

“Archie, give it to Veronica,” he says when the redhead picks up.

“Did you spike my water with any drug? LSD, maybe?” He fires at Veronica.

He hears a scoff on the other end. “Calm down, Dr. Strange. And no, what do you take me for?”

He's about to reply when a message appears below his, forming from the left to right, like the other... Entity is still writing.

“Okay.” He abruptly cuts the call, and stares at the neat cursive.

**_Okay, maybe not your inner consciousness, but a twenty two year old blonde girl sitting in her New York apartment._ **

Maybe he has a split personality disorder.

 **I wasn't aware I had an alter ego.** He writes. He's going crazy, he knows it, but something’s not letting him let go of his pen. His eyes lie on his arm and his arm only, waiting with bated breath.

**_Or maybe you aren't aware about soulmates._ **

There's that word again. The lady on the subway, and now his arm.

 **I don't believe in soulmates** _._

To be honest, he doesn't know what to believe, because here he is, sitting on his run down couch, talking to himself via arm.

**_You're not the first person to tell me that. Shift to thigh? I'm running out of space._ **

He involuntarily lets out a laugh- _shift to thigh._ That is the most ridiculous thing he's heard in a while, but he complies. The problem is, he's wearing pants, so he rushed to his room and changes into a pair of shorts, while thinking of his reply.

**How do you propose to convince me?**

It's chilly, so Jughead gets up to increase the thermostat. He's aware of what he's doing- he's aware of how crazy, extraordinary, and ridiculous this is.

**_First things first-names. I'm Betty Cooper._ **

Betty. He's seen that name, somewhere recently, and he definitely acknowledged it that time because Betty is an uncommon name. He can't remember where. Or maybe it's his mind picking up a random name.

Betty Cooper is the most fifties housewife-like name he's heard, though.

His hand hovers over his knee with his pen- for some absurd reason, he's apprehensive. It's himself he's talking to, after all, so why should it be such a bother?

**One question- are you from the fifties? -Jughead Jones**

The reply doesn’t come as fast as the others, and Jughead’s _almost_ relieved, yet his heart is still pounding in tandem with his head.

**_One cafe Americano, no sugar. And a Hello Kitty bandaid._ **

The girl in Starbucks.

Her name was Betty, he’d seen her nametag.

**You’re the girl with the boring band-aid.**

She had a cut on her thumb, too.

**_You’re the guy with the weird name._ **

She’d laugh at his real one.

**You’re the girl with the pretty eyes.**

He doesn’t know why he wrote that.

**_You’re the guy with the cuts on his palm._ **

She’d noticed, apparently, because if things were going where they were...

**Which means, you have them too.**

He runs out of space on his left thigh, and shifts to his right, waiting for her response.

**_I’d like to meet face to face._**

Her invite sends a shiver of excitement up his spine. He has a meeting, soon, but he’d blow that off if it means he meets this... girl and also confirms that he’s not losing his mind.

He picks up his phone and shoots a quick text to Mr. Baltimore, apologising and citing an emergency. Which, in this situation, there sort of was.  

**Where and when?**

**_The Liberty Island Ferry. In an hour._ **

He jumps up to get ready.


	8. viii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead Jones doesn’t know how the crimson crescents ended up on his palms.
> 
> Betty Cooper is clueless when it comes to the messages on her arms.
> 
> Soulmate AU where all the little marks and injuries belonging to Betty and Jughead start finding themselves on each other’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I'm really sorry for the late update, but I had some school work and terrible internet to deal with! I hope you enjoy!

“I'm sorry I didn't believe you!”

Betty and Kevin stand in front of her closet, in search of an appropriate outfit for this first meeting. Second, if you count the one at Starbucks. 

“It's okay, Kev.” Betty says, bubbling with excitement. “Make it up to me by helping me decide what to wear. I have fifteen minutes!”

Betty usually doesn't take very long to pick an outfit, but this time is different. She's meeting her soulmate.

“Here,” Kevin throws something at her. It's a white summer dress with a sweetheart neckline and spaghetti straps, which ends at the middle of her thigh. “Simple yet elegant.”

She doesn't protest much, takes the garment, with some stockings, and goes to the bathroom. “Get my makeup ready, will you?” She asks.

After she dons the dress, she stares into the mirror, and subsequently, her hands.

He knows she hurts herself. And inadvertently, she's hurting him too. 

Shaking her head, she vows to stop doing it. She vows to find another outlet, another coping mechanism, and it'll be okay.

She exits the bathroom, only to hear Kevin's whistle. “You look positively ethereal, Betty. You know what? Let your hair down.”

She listens to him, because she knows he has good taste.

Five minutes later, after flicking on a bit of mascara and eyeliner, she puts on a pair of nude boots and turns to Kevin. “Wish me luck,” she says, finally putting on her coat.

“Good luck, Betts.” He says, leaning in for a hug. But he doesn't go all the way, stops, and asks, “Are you sure about this?”

Betty thinks. Is she? She's about to meet someone that destiny dictates will be her one true love. He seems nice enough, but will he turn out to be an asshole?

What if he's misogynistic? What if he's into drugs? What if he's a Trump supporter? Or pro-life? The possibilities are endless. She'll never know if she never finds out.

“Yes.”

* * *

 

She recognises him immediately.

His dark mop of hair is wind-blown, and while his back is towards her, she identifies the same leather jacket he'd worn the first time she met him.

He has a camera in her hands, and he's talking pictures of the gorgeous Battery Park with the onset of fall.

He turns, after a second, and snaps a picture of the Upper Bay.

Betty walks up to him, smiling when he sees her through his peripheral vision and puts his camera down.

“My alter ego?” He says, grinning widely.

“Yours truly,” She elegantly bows.

He takes out a pen, looking at her with his blue-green eyes the entire time, pushes up the sleeve of his jacket and draws on the back of his hand. 

When Betty lifts her hand up, she sees a small crown and 'Jug’ written under it. She holds it up for him to see.

“I'm sorry, Betty Cooper, but I need to confirm that I'm not hallucinating.” He says, and stops a teenager who's walking by.

“Excuse me, sorry, but do you see this lady standing in front of me in white?”

The girl nods, an amused and bewildered expression on her face. “She's definitely real, if that's what you're asking.”

“Okay, thank you,” he says, smiling at the girl. Betty giggles, too, and tilts her head towards the water. “Let's go to Liberty Island.”

They change their direction and head to the docks, talking all the while.

“Tell me about yourself,” Betty starts. 

Jughead fiddles with the camera strap around his neck. “I'm Jughead Jones, author extraordinaire, student at NYU, twenty two years old, and working at Barnes and Nobles.” He begins.

“Author?” Betty asks. “You've written a book?”

“I have,” he said, blushing slightly. “It's coming out on November 21st.”

“Congratulations, Jughead! What's it called?”

“The Anatomy of a Murder.” He rubs the back of his neck. They join a queue to book ferry tickets. “And what's it about?” Betty asks, her curiosity piqued.

“As the name suggests, it's about the murder of a high school junior, Mason Black in the small town of Riverdale, and how its layers of innocence are stripped away to reveal what's truly underneath.” He describes, paying the cashier for both their tickets.  _ True gentleman, _ Betty thinks.

Jughead continues. “The story follows Austin Anderson, Lizzie Caspar and Valerie Langdon, along with Jupiter Jonas- weird name, I know- as they try to solve this mystery. Jupiter's the narrator, too.”

“That would be something I would love to read. Mysteries are my favourite genre.” Betty says, as they walk to the boarding point. 

“So is mine.” Jughead says, running a hand through his dark, wavy hair. Betty’s almost jealous of it.

“I was actually supposed to decide on the cover today.”   
“And why aren’t you?” 

“I’m here with you.” Jughead grins. “This couldn’t wait.”

He blew off a meeting for Betty Cooper. A very important meeting!

“You could have asked meet later, for dinner or something!” She brings her hands up. “Is your  vmanager angry?”   
“Mr. Baltimore? Nah, I’ve been the model author for a while now. I can afford this.”   
The ferry arrives  and they board it, immediately making their way to the highest deck. “It’s chilly up there, won’t your legs fall off?” He asks, glancing at them.

“I’m good- stockings to the rescue!” She smiles, climbing the metal stairs. 

The wind from the upper bay is biting, but Betty's always loved the cold. She likes bundling up in layers, rather than removing them.

“Winter’s my favourite season.” Jughead says, pulling his jacket closer once they're up on the deck and leaning against the metal railing, staring at the glistening water below. “Closely followed by fall.”

“Same.” She told him why.

They stay silent for a minute, and Betty watches as Jughead shuts his eyes and tilts his head up towards the sun. The ferry starts moving with a slight jolt, and Betty latches onto Jughead's arm for balance.

While he allows it, he moves away after a second. Betty's hand is left hovering awkwardly.

Jughead looks up and notices. “Sorry,” He says, looking down but remaining where he is. “I'm going to be honest with you...is that okay?”

Betty's heart skips a beat and she can already feel her fists curl up but she nods. 

“I was so incredulous about the entire soulmate concept- I still am- because one, I never knew it to be real, and two- the universe has just thrown someone in front of me and told me that she’s my soulmate, when I’m 22, building my career, and I’m supposed to accept that? I’m not great with girls, truth be told, but how am I not supposed to feel guilty when I almost had sex last night? 

“On the other hand, I’m angry. Why now? Why now, when I’ve built walls around myself, and I’m supposed to take them down for a girl I might not even like?” He glances at Betty. “Not that I don’t like you, I just don’t  _ know  _ you. I’m just supposed to fall in love with you like that?” He snaps his fingers as he says the last word.

He clenches his jaw. “And what if this doesn’t work? What if we try dating and try the whole couple thing, but it doesn’t work out, and the universe has just made a mistake? How are we supposed to live like that when everything that appears on me appears on you too?”

He bites his lip, looking at Betty for an answer.

“Jughead,” she says, unclenching her fists. “I hope you didn’t expect us to kiss the very first time we meet or something like that. Of course it’s going to take time- let’s treat this like a normal first date- we saw each other on Tinder, swiped right, and here we are, okay?”

Jughead looks a little less troubled, so she continues. “If this doesn’t work out, Jughead, we’ll try and be friends, okay? The added skin thing we can’t do anything about, but just because the universe says  _ we’re meant to be _ doesn’t mean we  _ have to.  _ We’re meant to be, not forced to be.”

He turns towards her, looking at the new york skyline behind her. 

“And I want to build a career, too, can’t we do that while attempting a relationship? If thousands of couples in the very city behind us can do so, why can’t we?”

“Yeah, I know,” Jughead nods. 

“Time is what we need, and time is what we’ll take.” Betty says, putting a hand on his shoulder to test the waters. He doesn’t flinch or move away, and her hands rests there.

“Besides, I already know about your,” Betty puts her hand on her neck, “ _ Endeavours _ last night.”

Jughead turns a shade of bright scarlet and swears. “They came on you too, of course. I’m sorry, I may have been drunk.”   
“That’s okay.” She opens her palms and show them to him. “I hurt you, too, and I’m sorry.”

Jughead’s fingers trace the faint scars on his palm, and on finger goes to touch hers. “Why do you do that?”   
“It’s an outlet for things I can’t bear.” Betty says, voice small.

He sighs. “I can relate. I used to pinch myself a lot, to the point of bruising, when I was a teenager- I had to deal with a crappy family and a crappy school.”

“How did you stop?” Betty looked upwards. “What did you do?”   
Jughead lifted his finger from her palm. “I poured myself into writing. I started my novel, started stripping away all layers I had with the help of that blinking cursor and channeled it into my writing instead. So, I stopped.”

Betty nods, putting her hands on the metal counter and putting her head on it. She breathed in deeply, relishing the wind on her face, whipping her hair to one side.   
“So, Betty Cooper, tell me about yourself.” Jughead says, a grin appearing on his face. “You seem like the ultimate Hitchcock blonde, let’s see if you really are one.”

“You watch Hitchcock?” Betty raises an eyebrow. “Good taste.”

Jughead quirks an eyebrow, too, and folds his arms. “What’s your favourite movie, then, Princess of Monaco?”

“Rear Window.” Betty answers. “Yours?”

Jughead feigns horror and holds a hand up to his heart. “You expect me to chose?”

“Top three, then.”

Jughead frowns, but nods. “Alright. The Birds, Strangers on a Train, of course, and Vertigo.”

“Good choices,” Betty says. “My sister and I always watched Hitchcock, Friday evenings. It was our little regime.”

“You have a sister?” Jughead asks. 

“Older one, by two years. She got pregnant in High School and she’s raising a pair of twins at the moment.”   
“Wow,” Jughead widens his eyes. “That takes a huge amount of effort.”

‘And she’s doing it pretty well, I must say.” She glances at Jughead. “You have siblings?”

“Jellybean. In high school right now.” Jughead answers.

“Okay, did your parents name you when they were drunk?” Betty says.

“Trust me, the real ones are worse.” Jughead says with a deadpan face. “Continue. Tell me about yourself.”   
And Betty talks, tells him all about the terrible internship, her college course, her job at Starbucks. He watches with a grin as she animatedly tells him about why she loves Nancy Drew so much, and sympathises with her when she mentions her mom. 

Before they know it, they’re at Liberty Island, where she takes pictures of him trying to replicate Lady Liberty’s pose, and he sneaks in a snap of her and the Manhattan skyline. 

Soon, they’re on the ferry home, at the docks, and finally, on Manhattan ground, and it’s time to say goodbye.

Betty shyly kisses him on the cheek. “Talk to you soon, Jughead.”

He smiles. “I’ll have to, won’t I?”He says, gesturing to his arms. “Look forward to spending more time with you, Betty Cooper.”

They part in separate directions, and Betty can’t wipe the smile off her face. 


	9. ix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead Jones doesn’t know how the crimson crescents ended up on his palms.
> 
> Betty Cooper is clueless when it comes to the messages on her arms.
> 
> Soulmate AU where all the little marks and injuries belonging to Betty and Jughead start finding themselves on each other’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, again! Tenth grade has started and I'm REALLY BUSY... but thanks for all the love and support!

 

Jughead is heading home, late evening, after a book meeting- this time, it’s formal, because it required a tie and a blazer. Two items of clothing, which, he did not have, and had to begrudgingly borrow from Roberto. The guy was at least a size and a half bigger, but shorter than Jughead, and the suit  _ was _ ill-fitting, because the pants ended just above his ankles. That was the trend, though, apparently.

He glances at his arm as he treads the busy New York pavements for a message from Betty- for the past two weeks, twenty questions had become their thing, but instead of twenty, it was infinite. He’d learnt a lot of things about Bett. She was a very interesting person, and was perhaps the fastest friend Jughead has ever made. 

He is awaiting a reply to his latest question- **Describe the best birthday you’ve had.**

He genuinely liked Betty. He really did. If this was any other situation, this would have been a crush.

The cynical part of him, however, knew this was only because she was destined to be with him.

He sees blank skin below his question, though- she must be busy.

Jughead uncomfortably shrugs, missing his trustworthy denim-lined or leather jacket sitting in his closet at home. It’s early November, and it’s only getting colder.

His phone buzzes, and he digs in the borrowed blazer to check his messages.

_ Twenty years, no bail. _

It’s from an unsaved contact, but Jughead has the number memorized. How could he not, when he spent hours learning it before Juvie so that he could call her? (He wasn’t aware that the parents called, not the other way around.) He just deleted it in a moment of irrational spite.

It’s his mom, and the message tells him that his Dad’s going to stay in prison for a while.

Another message pops up below.  _ Guilty of tampering with evidence and perjury. Not guilty of murder. _

Jughead sees red for a split second. Before he knows it, his fists curl up, but instead of piercing the skin with his nails, like Betty does, he turns to his right and punches a metal door to his right.

Pain shoots up his hand, and he feels something wet on his knuckles.

“Oi!” Shouts someone above, probably the owner of the shop, and Jughead mumbles an apology before sprinting home.

Tears don't come this time, only anger, because twenty years is a  _ fucking _ eternity. 

He thinks of Jellybean and how devastated she must be, but he can't talk to her like this- not when he's seething. 

Twenty years. He won't be a part of Jellybean's life anymore, nor will he be part of his. An orange glow illuminates his surroundings.

He actually isn't that surprised. Of course, of  _ fucking _ course.  _ FP Jones _ ,  _ you've outdone yourself. _

He reaches his apartment building, takes his keys out with fumbling hands and enters the lobby, taking the stairs instead of the elevator.

Fire licks the periphery of his vision, and Jughead's letting panic and fury take over.

The apartment door in front of him turns into a window with curtains ablaze, and the fire's real. Instead of wearing the blazer and button up, he was wearing an old, ratty shirt with an old denim jacket, and the beanie is back on his head. His fingers are tiny, holding a matchbox he’s been carrying in his pocket the entire time.

Flames bellow, rage, jump forward, and Jughead can feel the searing heat on his hair. His hands shake with the matches in them, and he’s in shock, he can’t move, he’s paralyzed. His forehead beads up with sweat, and the flame has reached the floor, it’s travelling, travelling, travelling...

Alarms ring in the background. He can hear sirens and the screams and shouts of his classmates, running away, wailing and shrieking, wailing and shrieking, and all the while, the fire is only coming closer.

The crackling. The sizzling. The sounds of crashing and roaring and snapping and roaring, and if he closes his eyes, he can imagine sitting in front of a very large bonfire, with his Dad, Fred andrews, and Archie making S'mores beside him.

The smell of burning rubber. His shoes are on fire.

A gloved arm grabs his left shoulder, and he stumbles backwards, through multiple dimensions. The heat is replaced with an eerie chill, biting and nipping at his neck, which eventually slows down, and all that is left is cold. He opens his eyes, back in his suit, and Betty is standing beside him.

“Jughead!” She says, shaking him further. “What was that?”   
His eyes widen, and he realises his standing in front of his apartment door, staring at the plaque that indicates the flat number. He doesn’t know what just happened, but his hands still tremble. Though the fury is replaced by hollowness inside, it’s now buried somewhere deep inside him.

“Jug, are you okay?” Betty’s blue eyes meet his, and her’s are filled to the brim with concern. She’s cradling her right hand, and it strikes him that by injuring himself on his knuckles, he hurt her too.

“I’m so sorry,” He rushes, patting his pockets for the keys. “I’ll get you some first-aid.”   
“It’s okay, Jughead, it’s only the skin.”

His voice is soft and interspersed with tremors. “I have rubbing alcohol, and band-aids, Garfield ones, and gauze if you’d want that-”

“Jughead. You’re pale. Stop worrying, we need to get you inside. I found you staring at the door, sheet-white, and let’s not forget, your hand is worse. Mine’s only skin.” Betty interrupts, pushing him inside.

Jughead shuts his eyes to collect himself for a second, and opens them. “How did you come so fast?”  He knew she knew where to come, because he’d showed her his apartment four days ago, but that was fast.

“I was in the area, meeting my sister for coffee. I was walking home, a block away, and I suddenly felt my knuckles.” Jughead glances at them, and then his own. “I’m sorry, Betty.” 

Betty rolls her eyes and smiles. “Shush. It’s okay. I just want you to know that I’m here to talk..”

Jughead sighs, holding up a finger for her to wait, goes in the bathroom and fetches the first-aid kit.

He returns with gauze and an antiseptic, which he figures is the best way to treat this wound. 

“Sit,” He points to the couch, wincing when his hand throbs with one particularly painful pulse. His hands have not yet ceased their shaking, and his heartbeat still runs fast.

Betty sits, and when he sits beside her, she grabs the gauze and antiseptic out of his hand, and puts her hands on his shoulders. “First, you need to calm down, okay, Jug? You're still pale.”

He nods demurely, eyes dashing away.

“Look into my eyes, and take deep breaths with me. Will you do that?”

He blinks, bites his lip and gives her another nod, making eye contact. He takes in three deep breaths, in tandem with Betty, as he registers just how blue her eyes were. Bluer than his, it's like gazing into a sea of something unique- something Betty. 

He feels his heartbeat slow down, and some of the numbness disappears. She smiles and squeezes his shoulders, removing her hands to pick up the first-aid.

“Give me your hand,” she says, “Now that you’re no longer catatonically panicking.”

He offers her an embarrassed grin and held his right hand out to her. “I'm so, so sorry about the hand.”

“Jughead, shut up. You've apologized thrice already.” Betty says, rubbing the alcohol on his knuckles and giving him an apologetic look when he winces. “I hurt you too with the nails, right?”

“Yeah, but you didn't know. I gave you hickeys.”

“Same argument. So let's just get ahead of ourselves and change the topic. For instance, in reply to your question, the best birthday I've ever had is when I was thirteen. My sister had convinced the owners of the local theatre to play Rebel Without a Cause, followed by Rear Window, and then, don't laugh, Barbie and Princess Charmschool-” He laughs. She shakes his head at him in faux annoyance and starts wrapping gauze. “And later, we had a picnic dinner under the stars of San Junipero.”

“That sounded like an amazing day.” Jughead says, putting his pointy finger over the knot so Betty can tie it. 

“It was.” Betty gingerly touches his hand. “I think you might have sprained it, Jughead.”

Jughead flexes his fingers. “As long as I can type, I'm good.” He says, taking the alcohol and gauze from her. It was his turn to clean the wound he'd given her.

“So it's my turn for a question, now.” Betty hisses thanks to the rubbing  alcohol. “Describe the best birthday  _ you’ve  _ had.”

Jughead rolls his eyes at her for copying his question, but grins, and then thinks. 

“I was turning nine. My dad had... chosen to stay sober, for that one night. All of us piled into a car and headed to the drive in. Well, Jelly and I were in the trunk, cause we couldn’t really afford tickets for all of us...” He blushes and looks down. “We watched three old school films that night, but the reason why it was so special was because my mom gave me the beanie.” He gestures towards the article of clothing, which was hanging on a hook behind a door. “I used to wear it  _ everyday. _ ”

Betty gasps. “Everyday?” 

“My security blanket, of sorts.” He does what Betty did minutes ago and wraps the gauze around her knuckles, too. “Shall I get you some food?” 

Betty stands up. “How about I cook for you? Go change, in the meanwhile, you look uncomfortable in that suit.” 

He really doesn’t have that many groceries, save for some tomatoes, eggs, bacon and toast, which is really more breakfast material, if Jughead thinks about it. But who says they can’t have breakfast for dinner? Who decides these things, anyway? What difference does it make if one has Chicken Pot Pie for breakfast and Pancakes for dinner? Science?

He realises that he says this all aloud. 

“Back to your old self, I see,” Betty giggles. “It’s okay, we can have breakfast for dinner.”

He smiles and goes inside to change.

When he reemerges ten minutes later, in a plain black tee and plaid pajamas, he can smell bacon frying, and it’s so  _ unusual _ that someone is cooking for him that he has a silly grin on his face when he appears around the kitchen corner. Betty’s busy flipping bacon, humming slightly, and Jughead wonders at the speed their friendship is traveling. 

“That’s really the first time that bacon hasn’t been burnt in this apartment.” Jughead says, and Betty startles a bit, turning around. 

“I guess you’re the takeout guy, then.” Betty quirks her eyebrows and turns around to tend to the stove. “I see bloodstains, here, which speaks for your fabulous cooking skills.”

“Ah,” Jughead says, standing beside her so he could inhale some more bacon scent. “That is the blood from the Hello Kitty cut. I couldn’t get the stain out.” 

“Well, girls can get bloodstains out of anything.” 

“One of the perks of being a girl?” Jughead suggests. “Maybe that’s why more men get caught for murder.”

Betty winks at him, putting the bacon on a plate and then cracking some eggs to fry. Jughead folds his arms as a moment of silence passes, and then he speaks up.

“That moment earlier? Well, that was the first time.” Jughead says, and Betty is listening. “I just got a text from my mom, with whom I haven’t talked to properly in ages, saying that my Dad’s going to be put in jail for two decades.”

Betty lowers the heat of the pan and turns towards Jughead. “I’m so sorry, Jug. May I ask why?”   
Jughead flicks his lip with his thumb. “Tampering with evidence and perjury. I don’t really know details, I just read the text.” Betty is eyeing him, and nods for him to continue. “I don’t know why I reacted like that, I was expecting it, but...” He sighs in frustration. “My dad has always been an alcoholic, always, and sometimes, he cleans his act up, but sometimes, he hits rock bottom and it’s the worst thing to see in the world.” He walks to the other side of the tiny kitchen. “I was homeless for a while, Betty, I didn’t tell you that. No one knows, except for my best friend and his Dad, and my Dad, too. JB and Mom still don’t know. That dad won’t be a part of JB’s life anymore, because how can he, when all he’ll have know is twenty minutes with her at the prison, every week?” He shakes his head. “I’m concerned for her, too. She was dead-set that Dad was completely innocent.”

Betty slides the eggs of the pan onto a plate, picks them up, and places them on the counter with stools nearby.  “Listen, Jug, that sucks, so much, and I want you to know that I’ll be here, okay?” She taps on her forearm.

Jughead grabs some cutlery and goes to sit next to her.  “Thank you, Betts.” He digs into the food and throws his head back. “This is  _ amazing.” _

“Or you’re just hungry.” Betty giggles.

“Or you’re a great cook.” 

“Or maybe we can shut up, again.”

 


	10. x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead Jones doesn’t know how the crimson crescents ended up on his palms.
> 
> Betty Cooper is clueless when it comes to the messages on her arms.
> 
> Soulmate AU where all the little marks and injuries belonging to Betty and Jughead start finding themselves on each other’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I thank you for being patient :)

Betty stands in front of her mirror, at odds whether she should wear what she's currently wearing to the party being held because Jughead’s book is becoming increasingly popular.

She palms the hem of the leather skirt, one which she'd bought impulsively after an argument with her mom, and adjust the sleeve of the black, white and red blocked top that's tucked into her skirt.

It's not her style, but she likes the combination.

Her style is pastel- soft and gentle, an embodiment of her personality. But for once, she wanted to take Jughead by surprise and wear this. It wasn't that she was completely uncomfortable in it, but it made her feel different- in a good way or bad way, she couldn't tell. What she did know, however, was that she felt more free, because she was no longer confined to the wardrobe that her mother had taken an active part in.

Unfortunately, Kevin couldn't give her his opinion, because he was on a flight to San Junipero to visit his Dad, so Betty just decided to wing it.

Putting on a coat and a pair of white pumps, she shut the apartment door behind her and made her way to the Subway.

It's been a month and a week since that dinner in Jughead's apartment, and the dynamic of their relationship has changed majorly- they're opening up to each other much more, they have inside jokes, they meet each other more often, and Jughead has already met Kevin. Things are going well.

She's willing to take it at any place Jughead wishes, because she understands his resentment, but part of her _really hopes_ that resentment is turning into...something else.

She's partly aware of the looks she's getting from predatory guys as she walks to the station, and fear creeps up in her heart.

_No, Betty, you have nothing to fear. This is your body, you'll show as much skin as you please, and screw guys who ogle at you._

Her palm fists up, but she's careful not to penetrate the skin. She has her own problems, she doesn't want Jughead to be hurt as a result.

Pulling her coat closer, hyper aware of the long legs she's exposing in the winter chill, she enters the station and patiently waits at the platform.

She pulls her sleeve up to see if Jughead's written anything.

**Please tell me you'll be here.**

Betty smiles. She knows how nervous he is.

Jughead didn't want to throw this party in the first place, it's his friend, Archie, that had insisted. From what Jughead told her, Archie had gone to Chicago and had come back solely to throw this party. “Archibald Andrews will never miss any opportunity to throw a party.” Jughead had said, one day over the phone.

It's semi-casual, to be held in the terrace at Archie’s hotel. There's going to be a bar and a dance platform and everything.

She take sher pen out- she always has one with her these days- and scribbles (Though in her case, write in perfect cursive,) out a reply.

**_Of course. When else will I get to see Jughead Jones embarrass himself with his speech?_ **

Oh, yes. Jughead would have to get up on a stage and speak.

**Betty Cooper, if you think this is funny...**

She’d be lying if she said she didn’t. She uncaps her pen, but rethinks it and pulls her phone out instead, dialling his number.

“What if I mess up?” He says immediately.

Betty laughs. “Jughead, calm down. I was kidding. You’ll be fine. Just be yourself, you’ll charm everyone.” She blushes slightly.  
“That’s easy for you to say,” Jughead says. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the subway, I’ll be there at eight.”

“Okay, Betty Cooper, I will, hopefully survive till then. Archie’s calling me to help with something.”  
Betty hears the train coming, so she nods. “Okay. Bye! And don’t worry!”

She hears him scoff and cut the call.

The train arrives, and Betty boards it, steadying herself with the help of a pole.

Someone taps on her shoulder, and  she swivels around. A raven haired girl, dressed in a black sequinned dress, with a fur (hopefully faux) coat around her shoulders.

“Did you just say Jughead?” she asks.

Betty frowns, but before she can reply, the other girl pipes up. “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I just happened to know someone that goes by that name.”  
“Well, yeah,” Betty says, pursing her lips in confusion. “He’s my sou- he’s my friend.” She catches herself before she says ‘soulmate’, because that could potentially make her out to seem like an obsessive stalker that insists on being with Jughead forever. Which was not who she was.

“Just t be clear, we’re talking about the guy with dark hair, broody looks, very Holden Caulfield-y, right? With a book being published.”  
Betty nods. “That’s the one. Are you going to his party?”

The girl nods. “I’m Veronica Lodge, by the way. Pleasure to meet you.” She holds her hand out to Betty, who shakes it.

“I’m Betty Cooper. How do you know him?”

Veronica grins. “He’s best friends with my boyfriend, Archie- the one who’s throwing the party for him?”

Betty scoffs in awe. “I know who Archie is. Never met him, though.”  
“Yes, well, I met Jughead when Archiekins had to go pick him up in the middle of the night when our hipster was drunk.”

Betty laughs. “Let me guess, a month and three weeks ago?” Betty knows that’s the night he (and she) got the hickeys.

 

“Exactly.” Veronica says, smiling and flipping her hair back. “I have been forced to spend time with him, thanks to Arch. He’s... different. Hot, not my type, but different.”

Betty’s not used to discussing such things openly, at least, not with a stranger she just met. She reddens at the mention of Jughead’s attractiveness. Veronica, apparently notices, but thankfully, _thankfully,_ doesn’t inquire further.

“I like your outfit,” She offers, wishing she could pull something like that off. The black dress suited Veronica’s tan skin to the Nth degree, and everything about Veronica exuded confidence.

“Thanks!” The brunette tilts her head and appraises Betty. “I love your skirt, and that combination with that top, girl, you look fine.”

Betty blushes. “Thank you, Veronica.”

Their stop arrives, and Veronica links her arm with Betty’s. “Come, _amiga,_ let us wow the boys with our stunning good looks.”

This situation is weird, different, amusing, and Betty likes Veronica already, so she lets herself be dragged off the train.

They walk up the Subway stairs, and Veronica huffs in disgust. “I’m not a Subway person at all,” she says. “But my driver is off for the day and I thought I’d give the underground a try.”

Betty smiles, imagining a world where her mother would let her get a driver. Not that she wants one, but she’s intrigued. Veronica seems like someone who’s rolling in cash. It’s unfair of her to make assumptions, though, so she pushes those thoughts to the back of her mind.

“So, Betty, how did you get to know Jughead?” Veronica asks, once they’re up in the New York street, breathing in the smell of winter.

Betty wracks her brain- she’s never actually had to explain how she’s affiliated with Jug. “We met at the Starbucks I work in.” She decides. “We bonded over his Hello-Kitty band-aid.”  
Veronica laughs. “And here I was, thinking he was the MCR and All-Time-Low type.”   
“He is pretty emo,” Betty agrees, fondly smiling. “I’m just glad he hasn’t pierced his tongue or anything.”   
Veronica stops for a moment and adjusts her heel. “But enough about Jughead, what about you? What does Betty Cooper do?”   
Betty shrugs. “I study journalism at NYU.”

Veronica gawks. “So do I! How come I’ve never seen you at parties, and stuff?”  
“I also work at Starbucks, and with that and studying, I don’t attend parties all that much.”   
“Well, Betty, now that you have me, you’ll see the most fun side of NYU.” Veronica says, turning into the hotel that they’d reached.

They enter the elevator, and Bett checks her reflection in the mirror. Admittedly, she looks great, despite the fact that she’s standing next to a glamazon, and maybe she doesn’t regret the short skirt so much. In a spur of the moment decision, she pulls the scrunchie tying her hair up, and lets her blonde waves fall at her shoulders.

“You look hot, I’m jealous.” Veronica says, smirking at her and tousling her own hair.

Betty smiles back and squares her shoulders, turning around as the doors open.

The terrace is very party like. Neon lights illuminate the terrace, reminding Betty of the diner at San Junipero- Pop Tate’s. Suddenly she has a craving for strawberry milkshakes, but she shoves that craving down. There would probably be only alcohol here.

They step into the area, with a song  by the Weeknd playing, and the party is not very crowded. It’s only eight, though.

She sees a buffet table towards the corner, and standing beside it, the man of the hour himself, standing next to someone she presumes is Archie, going by the fact that Veronica is making a beeline towards him.

“Ronnie!” The redhead sets his drink down and hugs his girlfriend.

Betty walks to Jughead instead, tilting her head and offering him a grin. “You look smart, for once.” She says. He's wearing a white button up and black jeans, and he looks amazing.

“And you look... amazing? Yeah, amazing.”

Betty tried to hide her blush (gosh, like the fifth time today,) and changes the topic. “Gosh, Juggie, I’m so proud of you,” she says, and hugs him. He’s always been awkward with hugs, but he leans into this one, and Betty catches Veronica’s eye, and the brunette has an eyebrow raised, not to mention her lips are turning upwards at the corners.

Betty shifts her gaze and pulls away. “So I finally meet the infamous Archie,” she says, turning to the redhead.

Archie shakes her hand. “Infamous, huh?” He gives Jughead a pointed look.

“The truth is the truth, my friend,” Jughead says, grabbing some prawn cocktails from the table behind him. “Betty, I assume you’ve met Miss. Lodge here.”  
Veronica rolls her eyes jokingly. “Yes she has, F-”

“Okay, no, Veronica, stop.” Jughead pleads. “Never the real name.”

Veronica grins. “I only know it because he left his Driver’s License at my place a while ago,” She tells Betty, who is amused. She doesn’t know Jughead’s real name herself, and now, she has a clue.

In the five minutes that she’s been here, more and more people have started trickling in. “How do you know so many people?” Betty asks Jughead, who nods at Archie. “He’s called the entirety of NYU.” He says, and Betty only just noticed that he looks a tad bit uncomfortable, and makes a note to ask him about it later.

“Do you know where the washroom is?” She asks. Archie nods and gestures to the elevator. “They’re on a floor below.”

She walks over, wishing she’d worn flats, because these pumps were killing her feet. It’s been only about half an hour since since she’s put them on, but they were a size small for her. In the elevator, she removes her pumps and walks down the hallway, acknowledging a sign that directed her to the restrooms.

She turns around the corner, and sees a man, about her age, dark skinned and well-built strut up the hallway. As they pass, Betty offers him a friendly smile, but receives nothing but a frown from him. He looks her up and down, and a small predatory grin forms on his face.

“Slut.”

A switch flips on.

With one swift twist, she spins around, managing to dislodge his grip. She will not let him take her down. She has her heels in her hand, and they’re sharp- she will use them to her advantage. She keeps him pinned with her elbow and shoves her heel into his gut.

“Shut. The Fuck. Up.” She grits her teeth, gaining slight satisfaction by watching him grunt in pain. _What is she doing?_

He nods, all cockiness supposedly thrown out the window, and his confident facade has crumbled away, turning into fear. “You crazy bitch,” He whispers, gritting his teeth, despite the fact that his eyes are wide with fright.

Betty will not have it. She shoves her heels further in, pushes her elbow harder against his neck. “This is your final warning alright? Get the fuck out of this place, because if I see you again, _I will kill you._ ”

This isn’t her. Something has taken over.

She eases her grip on him, heels still held outward, like her weapon, and watches as he scrambles to his feet and shoots off back the way he came, stopping to exit through the fire escape.

The switch flips back off and suddenly Betty crumples, sinking to her knees, pumps still in hand. She discards them on the floor as she feels her hands shake and curl up into the fist she knows all too well, curling so tight- and in the back of her mind, she screams _Stop it!_ Because she’s going to hurt both Jughead and herself- but she can’t, she can’t, she just can’t and seeks sweet relief in the pain it brings her.

 


	11. xi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead Jones doesn’t know how the crimson crescents ended up on his palms.
> 
> Betty Cooper is clueless when it comes to the messages on her arms.
> 
> Soulmate AU where all the little marks and injuries belonging to Betty and Jughead start finding themselves on each other’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a terrible human being for updating so damn irregularly. But here's the next chapter, and I do hope you enjoy!

Jughead uncomfortably fiddles with his black button up- he feels people get progressively drunk around him, and he isn't too sure he wants to be in that atmosphere right now. Betty's been gone for about five minutes, but the party had already taken a turn when Archie announced the open bar.

To be frank, he wasn't too enthusiastic about this party- Archie was, and so was Veronica.  His book's small success had just been the official reason for a party they were planning to hold anyway, and Jughead wonders what time it becomes acceptable to leave his own (supposed) party. He knew Archie meant well, but...man. College students didn't necessarily take it easy.

“Speech!” Archie yells next to him, also aware of the apparent twist. “Before they're too drunk to comprehend anything,” Archie sheepily whispers in Jughead's ear.

Jughead wants Betty to give him support, but she isn't here. “Can this wait?” He turns to Archie, but he's already being pushed up on the small platform that had been erected for the DJ, who was yet to arrive.

“Hello, everybody, let's give it up for the man of the hour!” Archie’s voice breaks out into the crowded terrace, and Jughead reluctantly steps up next to him. The redhead pats him heavily on the back, and the brunet awkwardly clasps the mic. Several pairs of eyes drift up at him, with a majority of them clutching a drink in their hand.

“Um, thanks for coming, everybody-”

His palms starts stinging, and the microphone his hands are wrapped around suddenly becomes wet. He winces, out of surprise and the sudden pain, slowly turning his hands towards him.

Betty.

“Woah, Jug-” Jughead sprints off stage, paying no heed to the outstretched hand of his best friend, and he's half aware that he looks like a maniac, hands bleeding from apparent self harm, running haphazardly through the crowd, spilling multiple Pina Coladas in the process.

He knows Archie is following him, and so is Veronica, so he bursts into a faster speed. He doesn't want them knowing about what he and Betty have- but, more importantly, he doesn't know if Betty will want to see him, let alone them. She's hurting, in ways both physically and mentally, and he needs to get to her- alone.

The starry night disappears behind him as he ducks into the lobby- he frantically looks right and left, wondering where she would be.  _ The loo, _ she'd said, which was a floor below, as Archie had mentioned.

He opts to take the fire escape, a dark stairway that he can't be bothered to illuminate by finding the switch, and takes the steps two at a time, swinging around the corner.

He makes it to the floor below, and bursts through the doors, finding the corridor empty, save for a pair of heels. There's a streak of blood on them, a stark contrast to the white.

His own palms are throbbing, meanwhile, and his entire palm is red. Betty hasn't stopped.

He spots a sign that directs him to the girl's toilet, and he sprints there. Throwing all doubts of entering what was probably a girl's safe space, he pushes open the door and finds Betty standing in front of the mirror, mascara ruined and fists clenched so hard the knuckles were turning white.

“Betty-” He steps forward, having come to a stop. 

She doesn't bother turning around- she's silently sobbing.

He slowly walks forward, stops when he's right next to her and the sink, and gently clasps his hand around her fists, uncurling them. She allows him to do so.

“I'm sorry,” She whispers, bringing away one hand to wipe away a tear. She ends up getting a smear of blood on her face as she does so- and her face is a mess of black and red. She looks heartbreakingly broken.

“Don't apologize,” He says, and winces when Betty's tears don't stop flowing. He doesn't know what happened, but he'll help her through it, if she'll allow him to.

“Come here,” He says, and instead of waiting for her to lean into him, he captures her in his long arms and brings her close, trying to offer as much comfort as he can give. She heaves under him, but her hands clasp each other around his back, so maybe he's on the right track.

The door opens again, and Veronica is standing there, Archie peeking over her shoulder. Betty's back is to them, while Jughead is facing the duo- both with questioning looks on their faces.

He shakes his head, and luckily, they get the message, slowly shutting the door behind them as they leave. He'll be answering a lot of questions later.

“I’m so sorry, Jug,” Betty’s voice cracks, as she pulls away and stares at his hands. He shakes his head, pursing his lips with worry as he turns the faucet on, bringing both their hands underneath it. The blood washes away in streaks, thankfully leaving no trace on the white porcelain, and Betty’s tears finally stop.

He grabs a hand towel that’s neatly folded on the marble countertop and folds it in half, bring Betty’s hands towards him and wrapping her right hand with them, repeating the process with her left.

“What happened?” He whispers, looking into her eyes.

She shakes her head at first, her eyes tearing up. “It’s okay- you don’t have to tell me,” He says, letting her hands drift to her sides as he soaks another towel with water.   
“Some guy called me a slut.” She finally says, shutting her eyes as Jughead dabs her face with the towel, wiping away the grisly mix of mascara and blood. “And I...” She sighs, her breath catching.

Jughead continues his efforts to remove her smothered makeup, face immediately contorting into an angry frown at the fact that she’d been called a slut.

Betty continues, lips quivering. “And, and shoved my heels into his stomach, and hurt him, and he called me a bitch, so I, I threatened to kill him.”

Jughead doesn’t know what to say, so he says the first thing that comes into his mind. “He shouldn’t have called you a slut.” He sets the now-soiled napkin down.

“No, but that didn't warrant a batshit crazy reaction.” Betty folds her arms into herself. “There are these times when this  _ darkness _ takes over me, and I can't help it, I just can't.”

Jughead leads her to a small couch in the corner, opposite where the stalls would be.

“Has this happened before?”

Betty nods. “In senior year, just before college applications started- I was stressed out, I had so many things to do, dances to arrange, jubilees to invite people to- and one day, I cracked. This girl, Ginger Lopez, told me to calm down one day, and I straight up slapped her and shoved all her things to the floor. I threatened her, just like I threatened this guy.”

She wiped away a stray tear.

“I was put on medication, sent to a therapist, and eventually, it stopped. My principal freed up my busy schedule a little, and I could finally focus on college applications. Things got better, and they stayed that way. Until now.”

Betty clasps her bandaged hands and rests them on her lap. “Well, I keep doing that,” she nods to them, “as an outlet, like I said earlier.”

Jughead runs a thumb over hers. “Have you, maybe, considered continuing your medication? You said it helped, right?”

Betty nodded. “I just stopped out of defiance. My mom made me take performing-enhancement meds, too, and I threw out all my pills. But, I’ll get another prescription.”

Jughead nods, pulling her in for another hug. 

“Betty, promise me...” He pushes away and puts his hands on her shoulders. “You’ll stop doing that.” He looks at her palms. “If you need to vent, or something to channel it all out on, choose me. I’ll do my best to help you, okay? We'll find some long-range shooting area where you can take out all your anger and frustration on a poor cardboard cutout.  And screw that asshole who called you a slut.” Jughead finishes.

Betty nods. “I’m so sorry about your hands, Jug. I should take care of them.”

“It’s okay, Betts, let’s just get out of here.” Jughead says, seeing that there are no towels to use as first-aid. 

“But, your party-” 

“Everyone except Archie and Veronica are getting hammered anyway. Come on,” He said, tilting his head with a smile.

Betty stands up, dusting her hands. “We look ridiculous. I have two giant hand towels wrapped around my hands, and you have a bloodstain on your white shirt. Which I will dryclean and return to you, later.”   
Jughead rolls his eyes playfully and smirks. “It’ll just make us look cooler. And this old thing? I can stroke my ego by pretending I got into a first fight and won.”

Betty laughs, and Jughead's heart bursts at seeing her cheer up.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Let's go,” He says, pulling her behind him as she giggles.

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh, for God's sake, Jughead, you sounded like a dying crow.”

It’s ten, two hours after they left the Tipton, and here they are, at a karaoke bar with Archie and Veronica.

As they had been leaving, Veronica and Archie had ambushed them, (well, had been waiting outside,) and after a brief hug from Veronica, Betty had invited the two to the diner she and Jughead had intentions of eating at. Hesitantly, the duo had accepted. 

An hour and at least a hundred individual fries later, Jughead had been deprived of dessert when Veronica suggested they go to a karaoke bar. 

Archie had spit his water out.  _ Jughead _ singing is something  _ no one _ should ever have to experience. But here Jughead was, standing next to a certain ravenette, who was also insulting him, while Archie enraptured the crowds with his hollywood voice. Betty, on his other side, coughed to hide her laughter.

He’d been on stage three minutes earlier. The crowds were  _ so _ close to booing him off.

“Hey, I didn’t go up there willingly.” Jughead shoves Veronica’s shoulder.   
“How can you be  _ that _ bad?”

“I’m Jughead Jones the Third. The only one of my kind.”   
Veronica rolls her eyes and cheers for Archie up on stage. “I’m gonna go request to sing next,” She says, walking away. 

Jughead takes a sip of his coke and watches Archie perform, side-eyeing Betty as she sways to the guitar riff that’s bursting from the speakers. She catches his eye, and smiles, one which Jughead returns. 

“You weren’t so bad,” She says,  _ obviously _ lying.

Jughead scoffs. “Please, Betts, I’ve heard myself sing. Driving birds away with my vocal chords is one of my talents.”

Betty ruffles his hair in response, an action which requires her to stand on her tiptoes, despite her white heels, that Veronica had returned to her, after finding them strewn in the corridor. 

To make it easier for her, Jughead ducks.

“You’re adorable,” Betty half-yells, but she’s interrupted by an adult man, about thirty, who comes up to them. 

“Are you Jughead Jones?  _ Anatomy of a Murder _ ?” He calls out, pushing his spectacles up.

Jughead nods, blush intensifying because  _ someone actually recognised him.  _ Given, he’d just publically humiliated himself on stage, but this was  _ big. _

“I’m Trevor. Loved your book,” The guy shouts over the din of the music. “Your singing, not so much.”   
“Thanks, man,” Jughead laughs. 

“Could I get a picture?” 

Jughead’s eyes widen.  _ A picture. _ People want to take  _ pictures  _ with him. People  _ liked  _ his book. He was  _ successful, _ or at least, on his way there.

There had been a time when he’d stooped to a level as low as homelessness- he’d even shivered himself to sleep a countless number of times. He’d lived in a weird mashup of  _ Harry Potter _ and  _ Cinderella _ where he lived in a cupboard under his school stairway, making friends with the mice. He was estranged from his mom, his dad was in prison, and Jughead hadn’t even expected to make it past high school.

But, he’d slummed it up. Moved to New York. Wrote his way to publishing a book.

And someone wanted to  _ take a picture with him. _

“Hey, man, it’s cool if you don’t want to-”   
“No, it’s okay,” Jughead steps forward abruptly, still dumbstruck. The guy, Trevor, gives his phone to Betty, who offers to take the photo, and maybe Jughead looks a little crazed in the photo.

When Trevor walks away, Jughead realises that he has blood on his shirt, and that guy would probably put it on Instagram. Oh, well.

Betty puts her now towel-free hand on his arm. “For what it’s worth, I’m so damn proud of you.” 

Jughead looks down, a small smile on his face. 

 


	12. xii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead Jones doesn’t know how the crimson crescents ended up on his palms.
> 
> Betty Cooper is clueless when it comes to the messages on her arms.
> 
> Soulmate AU where all the little marks and injuries belonging to Betty and Jughead start finding themselves on each other’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been about four months? Five? And nothing I say will change that fact. BUT I'M SO SORRY GUYS

The blonde steps out of the shower, leaving the curtain open. She pulls her towel closer to her and as she steps towards a mirror, carefully treads on her mat to prevent any slipping. A hand with a white manicure wipes away condescension from the mirror, and she stares at herself.

In the three months since she's known Jughead, in the month since she'd known Veronica and Archie, in the month since this entire chapter of her life had started, a lot had changed. Betty was now estranged from her mom, working independently in one of the most crowded cities in the world. Her social circle had drastically expanded, thanks to a certain combination of Kevin Keller and Veronica Lodge. She'd been to a therapist and she'd started taking her meds again. And she'd met her soulmate.

She could see the change in her face- her eyes shined brighter. She wasn't stressed out. She wasn't permanently anxious. She was happy.

She softly smiles in the mirror and focuses on the reflection in her iris. She was Betty Cooper, wasn't she? Things always got better.

She leans back, pushes herself off the sink and goes to change.

She's calling it an early night. It's  _ finally _ Winter break, but this year, she's staying in New York- keeping in mind the fact that, well, she and Alice Cooper weren't exactly on speaking terms. Yet. Betty wants to let this go, but she can't- if she lets Alice Cooper back into her life, she's afraid she'd have no more freedom.

But it's only the third day of break and she's been to a party on one night, anyway, and besides, she's craving some Betty-time. 

So she changes into old, faded, Barbie pajamas and settles on her couch with a bowl of chicken noodle soup.

She isn't sick, she just feels like it.

Opening her laptop, she decides to continue her rewatch of season 10 of Friends.

Before she hits play, though, she checks her arm for any messages from Juggie (They could text if they wanted to, but when they had this method of communication, why  _ wouldn't _ they?) and found none. She ignores the dip of her heart.

So maybe they aren't a 'couple’ yet- Jughead wanted to take things slow, bit Betty's heart refuses to listen. He was there during the Tipton breakdown, offering her his wholesome comfort that left Betty warm and fuzzy for a few days afterwards. He spent time with her- he went on walks with her at Central Park- they walked each other to class, he always dropped by during her Starbucks shifts, and always with his entire  _ personality _ that made Betty want to kiss him regardless of place or time. 

He'd been by her place a countless number of times, she'd been by his. They'd eaten every cuisine together, they'd watched a lot of movies, even crappy ones, in the theatre together. They had inside jokes, they teased each other, and he was one of her best friends, now. She'd even seen his  _ baby pictures. _

But he wanted to take it slow. She would respect that. 

He hasn't written anything, so Betty decides she'll be the one to start another conversation.

**_Hey Jug, ever realised that you look like Ben from Friends in your baby pictures, but you're a brunet?_ **

She writes this on her left arm, which is a blank slate, given that she'd just showered. Since it's winter and full sleeves are difficult to survive without, people won't see her arm and come to the conclusion that she's  _ out of her mind _ \- who  _ writes _ down conversions, anyway? But hiding it from Veronica and Archie, (They'd decided not to tell the couple-  _ yet)  _ had proved to be a pain. As a solution, she'd dug out her entire collection of pastel cardigans, while Jughead had resorted to monochrome jumpers.

**Conspiracy theory: does the kid playing Ben have a ~secret twin~?**

She laughs and grabs her new pen ( _ Pigment completely safe for the skin,  _ they'd said) and uncaps it. But, he replies before she can.

**Are you at home?**

She furrows her brows.

**_Curled up on my couch as we speak._ **

And then she jumps when someone knocks on her door in three short rapps.

“Knock, knock!” A voice that undeniably belongs to Jughead rings out.

Betty smiles, gets up and unlocks her door, crossing her arms and leaning on the doorway, raising an eyebrow.

“ _ Knock, knock, _ ” He prompts, tilting his head forward.

Betty steps aside. “Come in.”

“You  _ do _ know what knock-knock jokes are, don't you?”

“Yes, yours will undoubtedly be lame.” She shrugs. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

He sighs. “Archie's moving to New York, right?” (He'd only broken the news to the group yesterday.) “He's staying over at my place, because his flat is only ready by New year's, and Veronica decided to pop by.” He grimaces. “You can understand why I didn't want to be there when they eventually jumped each other.”

_ Ah. _ How unfortunate.

“Well, I got chicken soup and Friends, wanna join?” She pats the spot on the sofa next to her.

“Is that why you asked about Ben?” He grins and sits.

He's wearing a plain grey jumper with black jeans and converse- she shoves the fact that he looks hot to the back of her mind, before realising that she's in her pyjamas. No bra on.

Instinctively, she crosses her arms to cover her chest. Like he'll notice, though.

“Gimme a second, I'll change.” She gets up, but he stops her. “It's okay, be comfy. I don't care- and I shouldn't.”

She nods. “I'll grab a blanket, then. It's chilly.”

She only has one blanket which means they have to share.

She throws it at him, playfully, and enters the kitchen to pour out another bowl of soup.

Soon, they're sitting close, pretty close, the laptop balanced on one leg of his and one of hers, and they're both nursing soup.

They end up watching three episodes in a row, putting away their soup during the first one and finishing off some Rocky Road Ice cream during the third.

The whole time, Betty tries not to think about the fact that their shoulders are touching, her legs are on his, and his arm is behind her shoulder. They're in comfortable silence, chuckling periodically.

As she leans forward to play the episode in which Monica and Chandler get engaged, she looks back and notices him dozing. He sleeps with his mouth open, she realises, and there's this softness to him that's only subtle when he's awake.

She stares at the swoop of dark hair falling on his forehead, the thick eyelashes lying on his cheek and the smattering of moles on his pale cheeks. Her eyes land on his lips, pink and a little dry and in want of chapstick.

She wants to kiss him so badly.

And she says that aloud.

In realisation, Betty clamps her hand over her mouth, afraid that he's awake enough to hear her. He stirs, but  _ (thank the forces above) _ does not show any signs of disturbance. Betty closes her eyes in relief and settles back, playing the episode but not really paying complete attention. Her heart is thudding, and she would give anything in the world to make him want to kiss her, too. Then again, he wanted to take it slow. Then again, she would respect that.

She sighs, and for the first time in many such occasions, she does not sing the theme song. 

Take it slow. 

Wait, take it  _ slow. _ Slow didn't mean  _ not at all, _ right?

All those weeks ago, Jughead had told her about how he feared they wouldn't work out. She'd had responded by assuring him that they'd remain friends.

She still always had her doubts about that, though- what if one of them messed up  _ so badly  _ that any semblance of acquaintance would disappear? 

_ Betty, please shut up. _

She closes her eyes and tried to focus on the laptop screen, but her mind refuses to let her.

What if he ends up marrying someone else? First of all, Betty doesn't know how this certain someone would react to the sort of link Jughead has with her, and second, Betty doesn't know if she can bear with it. If she's being completely honest, he's slowly wormed his way into her heart, whether it was  _ meant to be _ or not, and-

_ His breathing isn't even _ . 

He's awake. He must have heard her.

She panics, but then tells herself not to panic, because they were supposed to take it slow, and this won't really do any harm, will it? Unless over these dozens of weeks he decided he doesn't like her, at least, not romantically, and only saw her as a friend, albeit a close one?

She's going in circles.

She carefully stands up, making sure she doesn't disturb his hand, and almost runs to the kitchen, where grabs a bottle of water and chugs it.

_ Please calm down. _

She thinks of that damn smirk and the resulting dimples. The witty remark that would often be associated with the said smirk. The smirk that would turn into a smile when she retorted back.

It's just a kiss. One kiss. If not that, a declaration of her feelings. She could do that, right?

She steps towards the threshold. She steps back.

She couldn't.

She hears Kevin in her mind, telling her to stop acting like a high school freshman, and her foot moves forward again. She hears her mother ask her if she was in her right mind, and  _ oops, back it goes. _

_ “ _ Betty?” 

Betty finally steps forward, not of her own volition, but because Jughead is calling her, and he finds him standing up.

“Just got a text from Jellybean- she wants to FaceTime, and I guess I should go...”   
Betty blinks. “No, it’s okay, you can call her here.” She sees his face. “Or I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He’s uncomfortable, nervous, uncertain, and she knows without a doubt he heard her. And he didn't like what she accidentally said.

Jughead rubs the back of his neck and moves to the door. “Thanks, Betts, for the company, and the popcorn, and the...” Unspoken words hang over their heads. “‘Night.”

He leaves at a speed more than what was necessary and as the door closes behind him, Betty deflates and puts her head in her hands, lamenting.

Lowering her hands, she reads the last message she’d sent on her arm-  **_Curled up on my couch as we speak._ **

She pads over to the couch and groans, still smelling a whiff of Jughead’s cologne, and hugs the blanket close to her body. It’s done. They’re over. There’s no point. They’d never write on her arm again and they’d both bear the brunt of each other’s clumsiness and physical injuries.

She reaches out for her phone to call Kevin or Veronica, asking them what to do, but then she catches sight of something along the back of her hand, and her heart skips maybe four beats.

**I want to kiss you too.**

She fumbles to dial Jughead’s contact,   _ immediately _ calls him- and hears  _ Little Green Bag  _ from Reservoir Dogs that just happens to be his ringtone. Muffled, on the other side of a door.

Betty strides to the door, a strange excitement and glee coursing through her veins. She swings it open and just avoids being crushed. He’d been leaning on the door, and he twists around in surprise (which he should’ve expected, honestly), and stares at her. Blue meets green. 

“...what?” Betty whispers, a hopeful gleam in her eye. He reaches out, his hands touch her face, he comes closer and the rest is history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and tell me what you think :)


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